After The fight
by allthatisevil
Summary: As the title preaches, it follows "The fight." It was a tag based on Prentiss' musings and actions after the episode, but now it's a cannon. Yeah, it grew quite a bit. Keep in mind this is my first CM story. Prentiss/OC/eventually Hotch.
1. Chapter 1

Ok, so I had to edit this three times because I am that big of an idiot. Sorry. Now, to the proper AN:

Hello everyone. This is my first attempt at a Criminal Minds fanfic. OK, not first, but the first one I dare to publish. I hope it's decent enough.

This is a tag... a long tag to The fight. You should know that parts of it come from a different story, previous to this moment, though it can be read without the prequel.

One thing, my English is not the best you will find, given that it's not my mother language. I do my best and I check spelling and grammar a thousand times, but mistakes are inevitably going to slip. My apologies in advance.

That said, I hope you enjoy.

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If he wasn't so goddamn cocky she would have hated a whole lot less that she found him attractive. But be that as it may, he was both attractive and cocky... and had pretty much saved her life. Scratch the pretty much, he had actually saved her life.

And there she was, beer in hand, deflecting his flirting as well as she could, being as witty as possible. But his flirting made her nervous and her comebacks, though witty indeed, weren't as snappy fast as usual. Which made everything worse because every member of her team knew that the time she took to respond was not as much needed to think of a proper answer but to fight the blush from flaming her cheeks. Embarrassing. Acting like a teen aged girl just because some _handsome brit_ was talking to her in that sultry voice.

It was nice, though. To have someone paying that kind of attention to her. Someone with whom she could do something about it. And even if it was crazy to think about perusing something long term- or mid term after just a couple of days of vague flirtation, it was good having the chance, being able to even think about it without chastising herself. Frown upon is not the same as sanctioned immediately. Advantages of being on different BAU teams rather than the same.

It was nice being at the receiving end of that interaction. Specially there, in that group. JJ, even when popped on the table, back hunched and legs dangling in a very un-lady manner, was still beautiful and girly. JJ was pretty. Married, granted, which kept the decent guys away. But pretty and girly. Naturally likeable; she didn't need to do anything to be noticed. All it took was for her to exist. And that other agent, Gina, well, she had that sort of young, rebellious thing going on. Beautiful too. Impossible not to notice her, not to realized, upon entering a room, that she had that extra something that made guys turn around.

And then, her. Simple Emily Prentiss. Though she was certainly not ugly, she wouldn't qualify as beautiful. Not even as pretty. In the looks department, she was _interesting_. On her best days. Unlike the other two, she wore very boring, appropriate clothes. Clothes that, most of the time, neither flattered her figure nor expressed her individuality. And her body language? Hell, she didn't even know why she did it, but she was always kind of hunched... not in the cute JJ way. In the geeky _I don't really know where I fit, 15 years old Prentiss _way. Which was nowhere near as cute as JJ's. She never knew what to do with her hands either. She had beautiful hands, yes -minus the bit down nails- but she never knew what to do with them. She folded or clasped them in front of herself a lot. And, sometimes, she stood like a... soldier, arms stretched down, hands joined at her groin, shoulders hunched, of course. And her regular standing position wasn't any better. Legs spread, feet pointing at 3 and 9. Not to mention how she sat. Her knees couldn't be further away from one another. And did she always have to rest her forearms on her knees? Well, of course, how would she hunch her back otherwise?

Ok, yes, she could kick butt. That was the upper side of being slightly masculine . But that hardly compensated on the guy department. She had come to learn that, despite what many people would have thought, a kick ass girl was not such a huge turn on. The Tomb Rider fantasy only worked for Lara Croft. Apparently, you had to be that hot for your kicking ass abilities to be considered a pro. And... She was not _that hot_. She had a nice body, but she was not that hot. She could pass as hot sometimes, when she picked the right clothing by chance. But it didn't happen often because, well, she wasn't aware of which clothes were the right ones.

And tonight, not even her bad ass, kick ass ability had properly shown. She had been the damsel in distress needing rescue at the last second. Because if Mick hadn't been exactly where he was, if he had chosen any other rooftop, if the unsub had run the other way, she would be dead. Over a stupid mistake upon which she knew Hotch would reprimand her the second they were alone. You never, ever approach any edge, be that the one of a rooftop or of a corner, any edge, with your gun down. First the gun, then you. Law enforcement 101.

Aside from not being killed and rescuing the father and daughter on time, tonight had sucked. In fact, the entire case had sucked. She had raised suspicion on the plane and been stood corrected by Rossi, she had tried and failed to get information on Cooper through Mick and had ended up with her stupid mouth open at his response, she had missed the raw knuckles on victim number 2, hadn't thought about the unsub's possible penitential record before Mick, she had spend an entire night chasing junkies, had been hit by a car, and her only relevant insight had been that the vics were forced to fight each other. Because saying that the guy was re-enacting the loss of his own daughter, at the point she voiced it, had added nothing to the search. It was, yes, an explanation for his actions, one that the prosecutors could use- would have been able to use if the guy hadn't died- but by no means did anything to catch him when they already had a name.

So, after that load of crap it was nice to be the object of a man's interest. More so when he was good looking. Even if she knew that she was the object of his interest because she was the only viable one to get him laid. Work relation blocked one, marriage block the other, Emily was the only one open. Ok, that wasn't entirely true. Like Morgan, he could go out, hand pick a girl and dazzle her with his accent and FBI status. And Emily was sure that any twenty-something cute bubbly girl would fall for it.

However -and at the thought a smile appeared on her face- he was flirting with her, seventeen years older than those girls. And, despite the cockiness, he had raised her interest. And he had style. And he was taller than she was. On top, he was left-handed and he had short dark hair, brown eyes and thin lips. No need to have Reid's IQ to connect the dots there.

While she mentally trashed herself in that reverie of hers, she had stepped away from the chatty groups that had formed. It is necessary if you're going to stare at people and asses them. Meaning she had to walk away to profile Mick, JJ, Gina and herself without everyone asking _why are you staring?_

She would have lit up a cigarette, hadn't she quit that long ago... not really that long, and every now and then she still had the occasional smoke, but never in public. The point was that she would have lit up a cigarette. Partially, so her free hand would be busy, partially because smoking had a tang of what she would like to be. Some darkness that would give her a mysterious quality, that would helped her conceal, if only for a little while, her plainness.

There was no cigarette, though. She just stood in a secluded part of the room, eyes roaming it; shoulder leaned on one of the washers, drinking her second beer.

She wasn't surprised. Lost in thoughts or not, she was still aware of her surroundings and obviously saw him coming.

He was looking at her with those half lidded eyes of his as he strode towards her in that rhythm that can be read as bashfulness or utter self-confidence. She held his gaze. In fact, as he approached, she almost smiled what could have been considered a sexy smile.

He stopped right in front of her, blocking the rest of the room. Irrelevant, since her eyes were focused solely on his at the moment.

"So... What're you wearing?" He used as an open line.

Her eyelids fluttered as a half hearted chuckle rose from her. "Please, you must have something less lame," she joked back.

He flashed her a smile, eyes still focused on her, and god, were those dimples? She feared she was flushing.

He must have seen that reaction, because he leaned the slightest bit. "I do, but should I waste my good material if you're going to turn me down?" Mick asked in a deep, seductive voice intentionally accentuating his accent.

She sipped her beer, stalling again, getting her blood under control. "Isn't it the other way around? Aren't you supposed to use those lines to try and pick up a woman?"

"Well," he began taking yet another step in her direction, "you strike me as a frontal, practical person..."

It was meant as a compliment, she knew. But frontal and practical aren't the kind of things a woman wants to hear when wooed. She blinked slowly, refusing to let her smile fade. "That I am," she muttered and looked away.

He thought it was his time to speak, to say something cute, irresistible, but Emily jumped ahead.

"Thank you, I..." She said swaying her gaze at him and back away, "I...." But there wasn't much else she could say, was there? "Thank you."

He could have said _any time_ with a husky voice and the entire thing would have been trivialized. The answer came fast, but it was not a reflex, "No big deal."

For the first time Emily gave him a real smile, and decided that that line of conversation was over with the classic "yeah, well..."

They stared for a tad too long. He knew what he wanted. Basically, her. She, on the other hand, was still torn between the possibility of him and the impossible. Being both profilers, there was not much they could really hide. He saw her hesitation she saw his assertiveness, both knowing the other understood.

Mick surveyed the room before smiling broadly, "join me for some air?"

She studied him for an extra millisecond, "sure."

Trying to sneak out of a room full of profilers was pointless. There was no disappearing, no sliding without being noticed. The best one could do was just look down to avoid the direct gazes. On their way out, they left their empty bottles and grab themselves another two cold beers and their coats.

They strolled outside. The narrow street, more like a passage actually, was dark and there was a chill in the air. She enjoyed the sudden change of temperature, the quietness. She realized that she preferred, even if just for this one time, not to be in a room crowded by people who knew her, filled with chatter and music. Tonight, she wanted to be someone else. Not the snappy, reliable, predictable Prentiss. She missed her old wild, reckless self. The one that knew how to flirt with men who weren't criminals.

She rested her back against the wall and took a deep breath. It was the kind of things girls did, right? And he followed suit, coming to stand by her side, his shoulder on the wall, facing her.

Emily closed her eyes feeling stupid and helpless and not wanting Mick to see those things in her eyes. She was too old to be having this kind of self esteem issues. To spend half an hour thinking about how other women were better at being women than she was. To try and lure a man by doing things _girls do_.

A draft of cold air made her shiver and her eyes snapped open. She found that he was looking at her between amused and interested. She smiled shyly and eluded his eyes by glancing to her left.

Another soft breeze hit her. It was a bit too cold to be on the street, but she was not going back inside. She reached behind her head and tugged at her elastic band, loosening her hair and shaking her head a little. It wasn't a scarf, but it prevented the air from striking directly.

He chuckled at the careless action. She had no idea, did she? No, she was absolutely oblivious to the effect this little, everyday things she did so nonchalantly had on him.

The silence was becoming awkward. It was one of those situations in which you know what's going to happen but not how to make it happen. And she sucked at those.

Realizing that she was not going to say or do anything, God only knew why she was so insecure, he turned on his back and took a long sip of his beer.

"Does it still hurt?" He finally asked.

"Hmm?" She had been sucked back into the vortex of her self-doubts and the question took her by surprise. Then she remembered the accident, "oh, no, not much..." She said, shaking her head for emphasis, "I have had worse," she added.

Mick smiled at her dismissal and Prentiss reprimanded herself for her damn need to appear as strong as any male agent.

"Are we going to compare scars now?" He half joked.

"I don't have that many scars, I am more of a bone-broker... you?"

He sent her his best charming grin, "I'm a bullet man myself. Internal bleeding always gets you days off work."

She laughed a little. "I'm going to keep that in mind next time," she said back.

Thanks to some deity that was looking over their shoulders, they managed to get away from work related topics and, instead, discussed British bands from the '70s and '80s. Emily loved the '80s music and Mick soon discovered that she could completely forget about everything when she spatted facts that most people ignored.

He tried to defy her and threw a couple of questions meant to make her slip, but Prentiss knew her punk, rock and pop bands.

She was so animated by the conversation that she started to recite every single concert she had ever attended, only to finish with a "... and that was the best The Cure show I've ever seen!" that lit her face in a way he hadn't seen until then.

Mick laughed, thinking that he had attended that same concert but was too toasted to remember anything at all. "Yeah, I can picture you all in black, hanging with the dangerous crowd..." His tone changed to a more secretive one, "but, tell me, how does the daughter of an ambassador jump from that to the FBI?" he asked mirroring the first question she had asked him.

Her eyebrows shot up and, graceful as always, she almost spit her beer, "how do you... oh, Prophet..." she nodded her understanding.

He chuckled. He was sure she had used her own tech analyst to check men's backgrounds at some point.

"Yeah, so... how did it happen?"

"Well, the Ambassador's daughter was not interested in following the Ambassador's steps. She preferred something else, and she once met an FBI agent."

She was unable to continue when Mick's eyes almost popped out of their sockets, "you entered the FBI over a guy?"

"What? No!" She shook her head vehemently, "I joined because chasing scumbags was far more important than anything else I could think of." But then, she had to admit, "and it's not like the Ambassador's daughter could just be a cop, right? College was a must, and I do like studying... well, not when I was 16, but... yeah, I like studying."

That was something, he thought. Not only was she beautiful and seemed to have no idea of it, she was intelligent, and honesty dripped from every single one of her pores. Regardless of what she thought, that was very endearing.

"You're gorgeous, you know?" He muttered leaning forward.

This time, she didn't bother to fight the blush or to repress the huge smile that appeared on her face, "thank you..."

She was even more beautiful when she smiled, and he was just gone. So he cupped her face with one hand and tilted it towards him. His thumb brushed her upper lip and her smile broadened. He was going to kiss her and, all of the sudden, butterflies invaded her stomach.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt anything," the very distinctive stern voice said.

They almost jumped. The hand dropped, they stood straight and stared at the intruder.

_Shit!_ She thought. "You didn't," she replied. In fact he hadn't until he spoke. He could have walked right by them and they wouldn't have noticed and the moment wouldn't have been ruined. And something about that morphed her embarrassment into anger.

And Hotch wasn't leaving, he was there, looking... staring at her, really.

"Do you need anything?" She asked in a very dry tone.

He snapped out of whatever had had his mind wrapped, "yes. The plane leaves at 7 AM tomorrow," he informed. But he simply couldn't resist adding, "be sure you're there on time."

It wasn't the kind of _you kids go have fun as long as you like, just get to the plane on time_. No. It sounded like an accusation.

"We will," she said sternly.

Without another word, Hotch went back inside.

Only then she looked back at Mick. There was something different on his gaze, but she was unable to decipher what it was.

On his part, Mick had gained some insight. The fact that he had seemed to have vanished into thin air the second Hotchner appeared and the stares he and Emily had held had been very informative. They spoke volumes.

She sighed loudly, how the hell do you go back in time? How the hell could she manage to get his hand back on her face, to get him to want to kiss her?

"Looks like _Hotch_ is overprotective of his staff..." Mick muttered not without a hint of humor.

"Yeah..." Emily replied more to herself than to him, slurring the word as she did when something was the understatement of the century. But she snapped out. These thoughts were not the kind she wanted when she was trying to get another man to kiss her. If he was even willing to do it now. "Yes, he is a little overprotective. I think it comes with the territory, you know? A member of your team almost gets killed and you kinda want to check on them, right? I mean, when Reid was shot we took care of him..." _and when Hotch was stabbed I didn't move from his bedside_, but she wisely kept that unsaid.

"Yes, yes, of course..." He said to cut her babbling. It was time to go back to a safe topic, "I think... well, I know I was at that The Cure concert."

The awkwardness seemed to evaporate as Emily's bright, broad smile lightened up the entire street, "You were? Oh, man, that's... that's so cool!" Memories began to flash and she couldn't resist, "Do you remember..."

His laughter made her stop. She stared at him with a weird smirk on her face, "What?" She feared that her over excitement about a concert was probably not the kind of thing that got a man interested. God, she was so goofy!

Mick pondered. He could say _yes_ to whatever anecdote she threw at him, which would probably end up with Emily believing he was lying to get in her pants. Or he could tell the truth.

"Well... I was a little... high at the concert," he explained. And, since honestly was the key with this woman, he elaborated, "I was so high I don't remember a thing. See, I was..." he looked away trying to find the expression that would make it sound cute, if such thing existed.

"You were part of the dangerous crowd," she nodded knowingly.

He wasn't entirely surprised she wasn't giving him a disapproving look.

"How deep into it were you?" Emily asked aware of the fact that it was not something people usually wanted to talk about, but she wanted to know.

He looked at her by the corner of his eye and took a sip before replying, "Pretty deep. Police involved deep...Old fashion detox deep..." He studied her face. It was that of one who knew. "You?"

She looked at him through her eyelashes. It was not something she shared. In fact, with the exception of Rossi, she hadn't talked about it with anyone on the team. They might or might not know, hell, JJ still thought she was the model of a nice, good girl growing up. But tonight, her dark side was screaming to be let out. "Not that deep... but close... you know... experimentation..."

Experimentation was so good at covering things up that she had been really tempted to fall free style into it. But, "It scared the crap out of me how much I liked it," she confessed.

Their eyes were locked once again, empathy flowing freely. She was something else, he thought. "Then what happened?"

"Then I got lucky," she sighed, knowing that it had really been by sheer chance that she had gotten away in time. "My mother was transferred... and I walked away from it all... well, not all, I still like the music," she said lightening the mood.

He smiled broadly. It was not usual to find a person that could use humor talking about their past with drugs without downplaying it.

"Yeah, that and the clothing..." He replied.

They both chuckled.

"Cheers to the music and clothing!" Emily said lifting her beer.

They clinked the necks of the bottles and drained their contents. Yes, they both were that kind of people. The ones that turn things around against all odds. Which made her much more appealing. Above all the things he had already listed as outstanding, Emily was also strong and brave to face her demons as well as the ones on the street.

They were both wrapped on their own thoughts for a long time. Probably of those times neither of them wanted to revisit.

Emily felt relieved, though. She wasn't used to show her real self, the person she used to be and that had got her to the one she was now. Revealing it to someone who didn't judge, that understood, that had been there too, lifted an enormous weight from her chest that she hadn't even known was there. She sighed.

As if her sigh was a sign, he stepped in front of her. They stared at each other and he could see the glimmer on her eyes. Tasting the waters just to be sure, Mick brushed her bangs to the side using just the tip of his fingers. He was certain, then. Whatever the deal was between this amazing woman and her boss, she was still in. And for that he was thankful. A woman that didn't run away once his past was disclosed.

From the caress on her forehead his fingers traveled down to her nape and pulled her to him. And they kissed. His arms circled her waist and hers locked around his neck. It was sweet, delicate almost. His lips were softer than she had expected and she enjoyed the abrasiveness of his stubble. It would leave red marks on her chin and around her mouth, but she still wondered how it would feel against her bare back.

The kiss escalated to something more passionate and the initially soft touches became a game of grabbing and pulling, clumsily since they were still holding their bottles, while the tongues and lips danced an almost violent waltz.

Mick pulled away slightly panting. He stared at her eyes and saw fire and darkness in them. He knew his eyes matched hers and simply asked, his voice much huskier than before, "What do you say if we just go to bed and try to get a good night sleep?"

She chuckled, "Sure, we wouldn't want to be late for the flight tomorrow, would we?"

So they started to stroll to their hotel, a pretty ugly place three blocks away from there, between giggles from her part and a sultry smug smirk that flashed on his, while they continued their little kisses. The beer bottles were discarded in the first trashcan they came across.

As soon as Mick's bedroom's door clicked closed, Emily fell into a haze of feelings and thoughts that she couldn't stop. Along with the heat that was rising within her, the sensation of being pulled closer to him, of his hands suddenly slipping underneath her shirt, the faint notion of her own hands gliding over a flawless chest confused her. It should be great. It all should make her lose herself, but there was something in the back of her mind, something that got in the way.

Jackets fell to the floor and things slowed down. They didn't stop, just slowed down so they could unclasp the gun-holsters, which was not really an easy task when somebody's lips on yours were generating instinctual reactions.

Her back hit the door as he pressed his body flush against hers. She hissed as the blue and black spot on her lower back made contact with the door knob. He was careful then, pulling her towards him, away from the hard surface as his fingertips crept once again underneath her shirt. It joined the jackets on the floor.

He was kissing her all over. And caressing her all over. And she was swept by it, by the physical reality of Mick's attraction to her. And she let herself go.

It was mind-blowing. How she reacted to his touch, how her hands seemed to need his skin too by the way they were sneaking up his sides, pushing his shirt off.

After that, a blur overcame them. Shoes and socks came out, though none of them could say how or when exactly. The same occurred to his gloves and her bra. It was impossible to know who did what to whom when hands and mouths were running free under the sole direction of instinct.

They bumped on the bed and fell ungraciously on it. He chuckled against her neck and began to kiss her there.

But then something happened.

When he reached between her legs, she realized something was off. When he went underneath her pants, she fisted her hands on the belt-loops of his jeans. But the breaking point was when the pads of his fingers touched her folds. And alarm went off in her head.

Usually, women bucked onto the hand, not away. Usually, women pulled him closer; they didn't shove his hips backwards. He pushed himself up to face her.

They stared at each other and time froze. It simple ceased to pass as the realization hit them. She could not do this. She had thought she could, he had thought she could, but she couldn't.

God! He looked so shocked. Why wouldn't he? There she was, half naked, on his bed, breathing heavily, face reddened from kissing and with his hands down her pants. And she wanted to do it, she really, really wanted to have sex with this knight with disheveled hair and racer's gloves.

Emily's eyes were wide and round and her mouth just hung open, a twisted mix of frustration and surprise on her face and.

God, she looked even more beautiful than before, he thought. He liked her. He liked everything about her. Just for once, he would have loved to be the kind of guy who said _everything's going to be OK, baby_, and kept kissing her until her body gave in. But he was not that kind of guy. He was the kind that didn't want to be with women that didn't want _him_.

He sighed and untangled from her, dropping onto his back on the other side of the bed, his arm thrown over his closed eyes.

What the hell had happened? Why on Earth was she pushing this perfect guy away? She had no answer, no explanation to either him or herself. A minute might have passed before she realized she should say something.

"I am so sorry..." Emily muttered when she regain the ability to form words. "I... I...."

"It's OK," he replied softly, eyes still closed, trying to think of anything that would cool him off.

She sat and shook her head more to herself than him, while she continued to stutter her apology, "I am so sorry, I... I do want... I really... but I just... I don't... I can't... I am so, so sorry..."

His hand reached out and landed on her forearm as he uncovered his eyes, "it's fine, you can't, it's... it's OK."

It was not fine. Not OK according to Prentiss. She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead, her face crunched. She felt Mick's hand moving to her back, stroking her in a soothing manner and decided to face him.

She found him sitting now, by her side, a sympathetic look on his eyes.

"It's fine," he repeated. "I don't want to be your tomorrow's regret," he added in a tone so understanding that Emily wanted to kick herself from there till the end of times.

"I didn't mean... I mean... I didn't...." She started again. But she honestly didn't know what had happened, or why she had had the sudden need not to be touched by him. Because until he went between her legs, she had wanted to sleep with him. But there was something missing from his touch.

He smiled at her confusion. Though the situation was far from being what he had expected, he should have known. A woman that walks with her heart on her sleeve even when she doesn't know what the hell is in her heart, that goes out of her way to spit sarcastic comebacks and that oozes sincerity would be simply unable to have sex with the wrong guy. Even if she honestly thought she wanted to.

"I'm not what you want. It's fine," he reassured her.

It hit her then. He was by any standard amazing. But not quite what she wanted. If only... if only she had known that before she went into his room. Or at least before she lost her jacket, shirt, bra, shoes, socks and gun. Or, _God_, before his hand was inside her pants! But only then had she realized that Mick's touch was wrong. Not in general, but wrong for her. She needed other kind of touch, or maybe someone else's touch, she really didn't want to think about it now. She wanted to get out of there, crawl under her own blankets and block everything out.

Silently, embarrassed out of her skin, she began the shameful process of redressing. She didn't even dare to glance at him knowing that he would held no resentment, that his eyes would be screaming the unabashed truth she had barely come to realize a few seconds ago.

She heard him fall back onto the mattress as she clipped her holster back where it belonged. Only then, fully dressed, even if not quite well put together, and standing by the door, she turned and faced him.

His winning grin was still intact, though his brown eyes looked a little hurt. She blinked slowly. "You are a real gentleman... and I am an idiot," she said, guilt pouring out of her.

He chuckled, "Nah, you're just... confused," he offered with a final wink.

She nodded for lack of anything better to do and simply left, loathing herself for every single moment since she had gotten into the jet three days ago.

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Well, if you liked it, please review. If you didn't, please review anyway, otherwise I won't know what I'm doing wrong.  
I do have a second chapter written, and a third one residing in my head. Say the word and they'll be up.  
Thanks a lot if you've made it this far.

allthatisevil


	2. Chapter 2

Ok, since I'm an idiot I updated without checking what document I was submitting. So I had to do it again, the right document this time... hopefully. I'll blame exhaustion, though, because I was sitting in front of this damn computer all day.  
I want to thank those who reviewed, it makes me happy.  
And finally, I apologize for my English in advance.

AND to those of you who are under the appropriate age to read this, just don't read it, ok? This is rated M for a reason.

Without much further ado, I hope you enjoy.

* * *

Defeated, she took the stairs up one floor, to her room. Standing in front of her door and searching every single one of her pockets, she cursed her utter and innate tendency to lose everything smaller than her gun. She had lost her key... probably at Mick's. Thanking God for budget cuts and instantly thinking what a strange phrase that was, she knocked on the door and waited.

Nothing.

_Crap!_It was possible, however, that she was already asleep. She knocked again a little harder and called, "JJ, it's me! I locked myself out!"

Silence again.

"JJ?" She called a little louder, closing her eyes in prayer, God, let JJ be sound asleep and not still at the gathering**. **She had no desire to go back there. She wanted her bed, darkness and solitude to wallow in her misery and self disdain.

A door opened, causing her to snap her head to the right in fear.

Hotch stood under the threshold of his room's door. She stared at him like a deer caught in the head lights, eyes wide open, while she thought that of course her luck would be such that she would have to face Hotch now.

He blinked first and drifted his gaze- glare, actually, to the other end of the hall.

"I locked myself out of the room," she explained needlessly, but compelled for some reason to fill the silence.

"I don't think JJ has returned," he replied in his most inexpressive tone as he took in her appearance. She was untidy, her clothes disarranged, her hair slightly disheveled and her face wearing a confused and exasperated expression. He couldn't help but clench his jaw.

She took her cell out. She was not sure calling JJ would be better than going back to find her, but it certainly beat standing silently in front of him, so she scrolled down to her number.

While she was gathering the courage to press call, Hotch cleared his throat.

"Prentiss, a word?" He asked.

She looked up at him in disbelieve. She knew this was coming, she had even told herself that the second they were alone this would happen, but it was pass midnight, he was wearing his so called pajamas, she had just come from another man's room... She could go on for weeks with reasons why _a word_ now was not a wise idea.

"Please," He added after her silence, stepping out of the room so she could come in, clearly indicating that she _should_ come in.

It was not a question, and it certainly wasn't a plea, she didn't need a body language expert to know. It was an order delivered by her superior and, as such, she had to oblige much against her will and good judgment.

So she silently sighed her frustration walking away from her door and into his room.

Though she was making a conscious effort not to snoop around, she couldn't help but notice that his bed was unmade. Obviously, he was already in bed when she returned to her room. It took him about 10 minutes to get ready for bed, a little longer sometimes, if he was stressed. She reprimanded herself for trying to figure out if he had left the gathering long enough after she had as to not know exactly how much time she and Mick had spent together.

Unable to dilate it any longer, she decided it was time to turn and face whatever needed to be faced. Namely Hotch.

In the dim light that the bedside table's lamp casted on the room, his serious expression seemed almost irate. The way in which he was standing between her and the door, with his arms crossed over his chest, his face slightly to the side so he could give her his dreadful sideways glare, made her feel cornered.

Annoyed at his display of authority, she held his eyes. Regardless of what or how she felt or had been feeling, she was not going to show any sign of frailty.

"What you did tonight was stupid," Hotch finally said.

She wondered to which part of the night he was referring. The adjective sounded too informal for the statement to be work related, but he had asked her in a certainly sternly enough manner for it not to be.

She decided to answer as if he meant that the _almost getting killed_ part of the night had been stupid given that it was, indeed, the most stupid thing she had ever done since joining the Academy. "It was reckless, I know. It won't happen again." The _sir_ that would have accompanied that succinct statement had they been in his office was left out for reasons she didn't want to clarify.

"Don't say anything else, ok, Hotch? I… I already know," she quietly snapped, suddenly enraged. She did not want to hear it. Right now, she really didn't want to hear that she could have been erased from the face of the Earth in less than a second. She already knew.

All she needed -all she had thought she needed was one night of reality. Of real conversation and a real connection with a man that was not beyond boundaries. With a man that was _possible_, with whom some kind of disclosed relation was possible. And she had had that, at least the chance. But she was an idiot of epic proportions and had blown it, she thought, anger swelling in her.

"Fine, we'll continue this conversation at a more appropriate time," Hotch replied in that particular Hotch tone that was both sharp and understanding at once.

"Thank you," Emily said appreciatively and slightly surprised by his change in demeanor, even when fury still dripped of her voice.

Now she just had to get out of there and into her room to finally crawl under the covers of her bed and at least try to put this horrible day behind her. Or batter herself some more until it was time to board the plane.

Hotchhad been staring at her, not missing a single twitch of her muscles or the subtle changes on her inflection. She was an open book. To him, at least. It had nothing to do with his profession, though. Had that been the case, he would have been able to read her since the first time she walked into his office. No, it was not professional experience what gave him insight. This ability he had was the result of knowing her. Of seen her in different situations, under different circumstances, emotions always leaking out of her regardless how hard she tried to keep them inside or how effectively she though she did.

First she had been surprised and perhaps a little embarrassed. When she came in, she had been uncomfortable. But then anger had started to build up. Directed to herself, he was sure. For almost getting killed, for letting her somber state of mind shine during the celebration, for whatever it was that had made her decide not to spend the night with the guy with whom she had left.

And anger was not a good companion for Prentiss. As stable and secure she could appear, underneath that surface laid the Prentiss that trashed herself, doubted herself and failed to see what everyone else saw in her. And Hotch hated that. If Mick had done something to exacerbate that particular state of mind, he would… he would do nothing, if he had to be honest, he had no right. He would have to settle for throwing menacing, frightening glares at him.

But that wasn't important at the moment. He could hunt down the assholes that caused her distress tomorrow. Now, having an upset Prentiss, he simply wanted to ease her. But, and that was the catch, the only thing that could ease her, he could not do now. There wasn't a path to go from where they were to there. To their on-going game.

Because it was that, honestly. It was playing house when they needed it, _just for tonight_, they always said. It went on until the next morning, until one of them left. But they had, from whatever time at night till 6.30 or 7, occasionally even 9 in the morning, a slice of normalcy. Laughter, comfort, passion, trust, lust, profound conversations or discussions and teases over meaningless things as if they were a real couple.

However pretense, that simulation of happiness they shared was the one thing that could ease her. It could. It could ease him too. Because, though catching the perpetrator was one of the highs of the job and saving hostages was probably the highest satisfaction they ever got, having one of your team members almost killed could, and did, overshadow those satisfactions. So, yes, he had to admit that, selfish as it may sound, he could use that bubble now. He could use those reassuring five or six hours of complete connection.

"May I use your bathroom?" Emily asked after a short silence.

To Hotch, deep in thoughts as he was, the practicality of question seemed out of place. But he hadn't forgotten his manners. "Of course," he replied, and his hand did the motion towards the bathroom that everyone does to point a direction even when there's only one possible door that can be the correct one.

From Emily's point of view, going to the bathroom was the smart thing to do. If she was going to sit by her door waiting for JJ, at least she would have an empty bladder. Her other option was to go to the front desk and ask for a replacement key. But while she waited by the front desk, the chances of anyone from either team spotting her were higher than if she waited by her door. Only members of her team could see her there, that if JJ wasn't the first to return. Which was highly possible, though, most likely, accompanied by Reid? But Reid didn't concern her much.

Washing her hands, she decided that she would sit on the floor, lean on the door and wait for the last humiliation of the day. Destiny was a fucked up thing, and it didn't hesitate to kick you when you were down. Three days of personal and professional hell, with a gun to her face on top. And then some more crap. But she was Emily Prentiss, she should have known better than to expect anything different. God, how could she be so sad and pathetic? she wondered as she glared at her reflection on the mirror.

When Emily walked out of the bathroom, anger seemed to have dimmed and all that was left was exhaustion, her steps a little dragged, her eyes heavy lidded.

"Thanks," she muttered and strolled towards the door.

Hotch had been replaying the events of the night, analyzing everything, trying to think of the right thing to say, the appropriate thing to do other than _that_. Failing to find either, he leaned on the cheap chest of drawers opposite to the bed, and replied with a quite, "Sure".

As Prentiss passed by him, his hand flew to her shoulder out of its own volition.

He meant to pat her, to comfort her a bit with that non personal gesture and say _good night_, he told himself after the fact. It was just a gesture, simple, small.

Feeling the weight of his hand on her shoulder, she slowed her pace down. She didn't stop, just accepted and acknowledge the gesture. But then the warmth from his hand transferred through her clothes to her shoulder. And that warmth on her skin was very shooting.

She stopped then, her head tilting towards his hand almost imperceptibly, and closed her eyes to absorb as much of it as she could.

Even then, seeing those tiny signs that told him that that was the path, his hand on his shoulder opened the door for a night of _them_, he didn't stroke nor rub nor squeeze. He just left his hand there, providing whatever she needed, if anything at all from him, and waiting in case she decided to cross the threshold.

The warmth began to spread. God, she had longed for that. She wanted that. She shouldn't fall for that, not tonight. But his fingers seemed to irradiate something that had been missing before. His touch, she should have known, was the right kind of touch. The one that made her lean in instead of… whatever had happened earlier with Mick.

A minute or two may have passed, impossible to say when time doesn't march according to watches, as she reduced her tight grip on her self control or pride. Perhaps she was giving in to the comfort, to the warmth. Perhaps it just wasn't a night to spend alone. Perhaps she preferred the little slice of the impossible she tasted from time to time to an actually possible potentiality.

As if it was a well rehearsed waltz move, she twirled slowly, lazily. His hand, without ever leaving her, was now around her shoulders as her side rested against him. A sigh escaped her and she thought it was one of those that took the tension out of her body along with the air. However, he could feel her still tense.

In an attempt to help her soothe, his hand moved first up her neck, then down her spine to the small of her back coming to rest on her hip. The warmth traveled with his hand, and left a defined path on her back. It felt so reassuring and simple, even if they were…In fact, they were simple, she thought. Their tacit agreement was clear. There was no illusion it of being something else. It didn't leak into their everyday life, it lasted what it lasted, one night and part of the adjoining morning. It was what it was; a palliative measure for those moments when they felt their lives lacked something.

It was simple. As simple as to spin and rest flat against his chest. So she did, relinquishing the last thread of control and stepping fully into another night of _just for tonight_.

It wasn't enough, though, even if she didn't want to, she needed more. She needed that everywhere. And with him, all imitation of bashfulness was a cheap charade un-wanted and un-needed.

She brought his head down to hers, opening his lips in the process and, before she let her open mouth to reach his, she muttered, "I'm still mad at you."

He kissed her anyway, celebrating his victory –wasn't that vile?-, and wrapped her waist with one arm while the opposite hand sneaked under her armpit. For some twisted reason he liked that. And his grip was tight enough as so she knew he didn't want her to go, but loose enough so not to crash her against him. For some other twisted reason, he liked that too.

Smiling into the kiss, he mumbled, knowing that it was a bold move but convinced that they were in that place that allowed teasing, "Then why are you kissing me?"

"Don't be smug," she replied strongly running her fingers against his scalp. "Being mad doesn't mean I don't like you or don't want to be with you." After all, even when mad at one another, real couples, healthy couples, didn't cut ties over that.

God, she was brainless, she thought as she deepened the kiss and pressed herself flat against him.

Hotch wasn't stupid. As much as he wanted to ask, to have that reassurance about the effect he had on her not only when they played their game but all the time, he refrained himself from asking why she was mad. He limited himself to play the part, to let her lead. When she was feeling exposed she liked to lead, to be in command, to try and get some sense of control. And, as far as he could tell, she was a good leader. She had taught him many things. For instance, she had been the one to strip many sexual acts of the veil of guilt with which he had covered them. And, just now, she had taught him that anger was not a good reason to break things off.

So when she pulled him towards the bed, he followed. And when she a directed his hands under her shirt, he maneuvered to get her off both the jacket and the shirt.

She was already short-breathed when her fingertips slipped underneath his clothes and up her chest. The damned revelation that had been stuck in the back of her freaking compartmentalizing mind and that had been pushing out tonight finally broke through with the strength of a train as she brushed his torso. Whilst most women longed for a perfect chest, she didn't. She didn't want Mick's flawless chest. The one she wanted, the one she sought and that soothed and rattled her at the same time, it was covered with scars. The lips that were kissing her now and that she gladly kissed back, those lips were reluctant to smile 90% of the time. And the man who owned them didn't know one iota about The Clash or Sex Pistols.

And yet, she couldn't care less. He was there, kissing her, holding her, undressing her, while his fingertips did things to her that would make Viper blush.

There was no doubt on his mind. He knew she wanted this as much as he did. And even if he hadn't known, he was beyond the point of being able to do something about to stop. Yes, he was having a very selfish, egocentric night. But it felt too good. Excellent, actually. She was letting him star as the man in her night, demoting Mick to a supporting role in the charade of theirs; although he was starting to question how much of a charade it really was. But those were thoughts that he would confront at another time, not when she was dragging him to the center of the bed.

They sat at the center of the bed, a position that gave them both an impression of equanimity, and she accommodated herself on his lap, legs and arms wrapped around him. He wrapped himself around her too. And the atmosphere around them pivoted to a less lighthearted, more dense and significant one.

They made slow, careful, quiet love enveloped in their little cocoon, the igloo of warmth and sweat and almost silent moans and gasps they had been craving.

Feather light touches, deep, passionate kisses, rocking to a tempo that was their own. The back of her knees, the small of her back, her bony ribcage, and every part of her body where she liked to be caress was caressed in the right manner. And he poured himself in each of those things, as if he was trying to let her know those things he hadn't even recognized before tonight.

And she panted on his ear because it was the only way she had to tell him all the things she didn't want to admit just yet.

She couldn't let go of him when they finished. Not that she wanted to. Not that he did either. They sat like that, her forehead resting in the crook of his neck, one hand on his shoulder, the other idly gripping his bicep.

They were still lightly quivering, and he was still slightly rocking, unable to stop, while he kept her close, encased within his embrace.

_Safe_. They both felt safe. As if that thing they had was all they needed to be completely off danger. As if no one, nothing could get to them. Perhaps, she thought when reasoning came back to her, that was why they kept doing it.

Hotch pulled her down with him, to lay on bed, he on his back, she on top of him. He carefully covered them with the sheets and blankets up to her neck, keeping them warm. It was one of the things he loved the most. Just to rest on top of each other enjoying the contact. Having her absolutely spent, absolutely abandoned to him, her hair tickling his chest, his shoulders, his neck. Or the other way around, when he just let himself go and rested on her, heavy on her slim body, secure, held together by her.

Hotch began to drift away. Prentiss, however, did not, her body still quivering. She wasn't entirely sure it was just because of the sex. Her mind had gone back to analyzing mode.

* * *

That's all for now. I hope you liked it. Be kind, rewind... oh, no, I meant review (how very '80s-'90s of me)  
See you,

allthatisevil


	3. Chapter 3

Ok, so this is unrevised because if I read it one more time I wound never post anything ever again. That is how hard this chapter has been on me. And you'll hate me. Please don't. I did my best. I can't help it. I tried, but this is what happens.

In another order of things, you'll notice that I finally corrected Mick's name. Strangely, I had checked IMDB before I began this story, but my mind processed the information wrong. I was sure it said Mike.

Those things covered, here we go...

* * *

She tried to relax. Made an effort not to shake. Not to disturb his imminent sleep. But her mind, the other side of her mind, it didn't care for him at the moment. No. That other part was bashing her for being so incredible stupid. She hadn't seen it coming. Things didn't usually sneak up on her like that. Granted, she wasn't one to overanalyze her life, not when she was in her regular mood. And she hadn't actually been with anyone since she and Hotch had started… the thing they had started. Ok, that wasn't true. There had been other men in the beginning. Not that many, not that interesting, and she had spent a total of maybe 4 hours with them. But she should have seen _this_ coming.

And _this _was…. Suddenly she quivered, refusing to name, and therefore make real, that thing. Because things only exist once you name them. If something isn't defined, it does not exist.

Rattled by her intense movement and half sleep, he squeezed her. "Are you ok?" he asked in a voice that only Prentiss got to hear. So different from work time Hotch. _Damn it!_

"Just tired," she replied trying to regain control over her body and mind to no avail.

"You're over tired and your body's telling you so," _honey_ almost slipped at the end of that sentence.

"Do you want to take a shower?" He enquired after a second. "It'll relax you," he added, such a delicacy and care in his voice that she had to sigh.

"No, it's... I... just give me a minute." She muttered, slightly pressing her nose to his chest.

There were many reasons for declining the shower. First, and her mind was not culprit of it, she liked the smell. She liked it. Dry sweat and fluids weren't comfortable and certainly not hygienic, but the smell soothed her. It didn't relax her muscles, true, but she preferred not to wash it off.

Her second reason was that she didn't trust herself to come back to bed, to him, if she had time alone to think. She was already flooded by thoughts of why indulging herself in their on-going-one-night-stand hadn't been such a great idea tonight.

Third, and the one that preoccupied her the most, it was the first time she had this kind of thoughts while still with him. Actually, she couldn't recall if she had ever had them, with or without him. She had been fine with it, whit their situation. The game they played, it was practical, simple and clear. They both knew what they were doing and they truly really had a great time together. It didn't happen often, but when it did, it felt great. It was, as intended, the perfect picture of a good relationship. The best relationship. They had gone through the worst moments of their lives using their thing as a crutch. They had also used it to highlight the good moments. They had gone though pretty much everything playing their game.

But now, if she let go of his body, she suspected her brain would consume her wholly and she would run for the hills. Or attempt to. Which would absolutely shut everything down. Or would make him demand an explanation. After all, even their fake relationship was grounded in honesty.

"How about a massage, then?" He asked after those two last ideas made her shiver once again.

"Let me give you a massage. I want to." Hotch insisted after a short silence.

He could want to, feel compelled to, or intent to avoid being kicked in his sleep by her uncontrollable legs, she thought. They were all valid reasons. And massages, Hotch's massages were _good_. But still she didn't think she could keep things together without Hotch totally and completely swathed around her.

"No, just..." _hold me_, she would have said had that been their kind of relationship."Just give me a minute."

"You can take all night," he said pulling her up a little.

He regretted it the second it came out of his mouth. He meant it, of course he did. And he didn't mind that she knew it, not in the slightest. He truly didn't care what she made of it either. If anything, after tonight, he was confident his little slip would be well received. He regretted the cheesiness of that phrase.

"Thank you," she replied, the cheesiness passing unnoticed, not the sentiment. Hotch could be terribly reassuring. Terribly being the key word there, her rational mind said.

She took a couple of deep breaths and, as she exhaled, sank a little more onto him. Between the scent and the contact, her body began to relax, her weight resting fully on him. His skin against hers was calming her soul and mind. She closed her eyes. Life is full of contradictions, which was why she decided not to think about the paradox of finding solace in the person that caused her distress.

So she held on to him as if he was the only thing that could keep her grounded. He felt so solid underneath her, so real. She would have laughed at her shifting definition of reality, hadn't she been so deeply conflicted.

Once the tension was gone from her body, he could loosen his grip and let her hands wonder, his fingers gliding over her back, up and down her spine.

He could have left her fall asleep, let her forget what had been troubling her and simply... But he wasn't that kind of guy.

"Are you ok now?" Hotch asked, his quiet voice concerned.

"Yeah…" She slurred. "It must have been the adrenaline kicking in," she used as an excuse.

It was a little late for the adrenaline to be responsible of her shivers, but it wouldn't be the first time her body could express itself only when she gave it permission. He believed her. Correction, he decided to believe her. At least for now. At least… this wasn't good, he realized. Yes, she had played along, she had left Mick for whatever reason, and she was still with him. But their tacit agreement required honesty.

He was a frontal man, straight forward, he didn't dilate things. He confronted everything as well as he could. At work. His life was a different thing. He had a tendency to play stupid and let things rain on him when there wasn't much to do other than accept them. At least that's how he saw the end of his marriage. He had missed the signs. Or had pretended to miss them.

And he realized that tonight he had done the same thing. He had not paid attention. He had been sure Emily's anger was pointed towards herself. But it hadn't, had it?

"Are you still mad at me?" Hotch asked in a cautious tone. He wasn't sure he was a strong enough man to hear what he had done wrong.

Was she? Well… "Yeah… but it's not your fault," she admitted. It was her fault. She should have been careful. But grrr… it had worked so well. Up until the moment she had had the need to parade her insecurities and bring old Prentiss out for a ride. Until a guy that was _oh, so perfect for her_ had showed up and addressed his attention to her. But she was not going to think about it now. She had already banned herself from that. Tonight was going to be just like every other night they had together.

"Whose fault is it?" He demanded not quite believing her, and not entirely sure he wanted to hear who else was to blame, as he crooked his head to look into her eyes.

He sounded a tad anxious and perhaps even e little upset, but his arms were still embracing her, encasing her securely, keeping her guarded from everything that was beyond them. That, that exact contraposition between how he felt and what he offered her, was one of the things that melted her into a puddle of goo. She sighed, thinking that he shouldn't be melting her into a puddle of anything and that she shouldn't have become the type of woman that melts.

"Mine," she replied, looking up at him, "It's my fault, Hotch."

He did not know what that meant, if she was telling the truth, if she was deflecting, if she was just trying to get him to give up, but he did not like it. And he didn't want to give in to his decades old habit. Whichever option, he wanted to know. But he didn't want to confront her either.

"Is it about the roof?" He asked her going back to the beginning of their night.

Unlike before, when her boss had called her on her error, this was her lover/partner/nothing asking. "No, it's not about it," she answered, her voice in her regular low pitch even when it sounded somehow smaller.

Hotch then had to move on to the next part of the night. "Is it Mick?" He had to make a supreme effort not to call him SSA Rawson, marking with that difference in title that Mick was not as important as him. Hotch's most basic instincts kicked in, apparently, when it came to Emily and another men.

Exasperated, she sighed and popped herself on her elbows so she could stare right into his eyes, "Do you _really _want to talk about Mick?" And taking in their situation, their position, she added, "_now?_"

He knew before he asked that this would be her reaction. He actually knew, the second she walked into his room, that he should not ask a single thing about Mick. But he had made his choice and he was sticking to openness regardless of how mad they could end up at each other.

"No, Em, but..." both Emily and Prentiss would have sounded as if he was reprimanding her, however, he hadn't rationalized it before he called her Em, "I don't, but…"

"Then don't ask!" She cut him off with a whispered shout. They could not use their normal tones when the walls were made of wet tissue paper and they had team members at both sides of the room.

"Hey, it's not me who went to someone else's room and came back made a mess."

He meant to say that it was valid motive to be concerned, but it didn't quite sound like that.

She huffed tilting her head; the Prentiss way to say _so that's what this is about_. "Now I'm mad at you because of you," she replied sliding off of him and sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Don't go, we're having an arg…" He began half angry and half worried he had broken that thin stability they had created, but he was distracted by the black and blue blotch on the small of her back, where her hip dimples should have been visible. "Prentiss, your back!" he muttered sitting up.

"I was hit by a car, Hotch," she replied dryly and the fingers that were about to touch her fell onto the mattress silently.

"May I?" She asked pointing with her chin to the button-down shirt that hung from the bed's post.

"Sure," he replied.

As she slipped in it and bent to grab what he later saw were her panties, he realized she was just going to the bathroom, not away. Relieved, he flopped back onto the bed.

She walked towards the bathroom made a controlled anger ball. She could not believe him. Really, what was the need? Wasn't she there, with him, in his room?

She got it, she really did. People can't help it. They need to know they are the chosen ones even if they don't chose you back. It's human nature. But did he really need to bring it into the light and rub her face on it? Was he aiming for a written confession? Did he want to know that nothing had happened with Mick because her body had suddenly decided it only wanted to be touched by him? Then what? She shook her head. This was not being another plain _just for tonight_ night. Because, seriously, _then what?_

Feeling naked, utterly exposed, with her feelings and emotions pouring out as if her flesh had been slashed and blood was streaming out of her body while he gained some sense of male prowess, she drank a glass of water.

Without even thinking, she refilled it and came out of the bathroom.

He had heard the water running, the toilet being flushed, more water, silence for a couple of minutes and then water again.

She was less angry but not much more calmed, he noticed as she padded towards the bed. Unbelievable beautiful too, but of that he had been aware since they had met all those years ago.

Wordlessly she handed him the glass. He was always thirsty after sex but never actually got himself a drink. She hated and loved that she knew that.

He drank its full content thinking that he hadn't even felt that thirsty, but he wasn't surprised she knew he needed water. "Thank you," he said leaving the empty glass on the bedside table.

"You're welcome," she replied, still standing by the bed.

They blinked at each other. As much as he tried, as much as he used his expertise, he could not identify and categorize all the things that her eyes were displaying now.

Unable to do anything else and, frankly, thinking that she might just do, he almost pleaded, "Don't go."

She looked at him, lying on his side, his elbow poking the mattress since his upper body's weight rested on it. He didn't appear to be as self-assured as he had been in her head.

"I wasn't planning to," she told him truthfully, even more now that he didn't really seem to be acting as if she was just a pray he had snatched from an opponent.

He should say he was sorry for asking about Mick. He should come up with some explanation and maybe even an apology, but he had the feeling that none of those things would be of any help.

"Come back to bed," he said.

Had he patted the spot next to him, or blinked, or winked, or as much as moved his head, she would have felt so patronized that she would have dashed out of the room half naked as she was, guided solely by her fury and resentment.

But he had plainly said it, just asked her to come back to bed, and there was a tang in his voice that pulled her in. Every single time...

So she laid back on the bed, uncomfortable at first, not knowing if she preferred to face him or not. She just wanted to sleep. So what if right now she needed his warmth to fall asleep? So what if she wanted to strap herself around him to feel, for the couple of hours they had before the alarm went off? So what if even now, torn between what she wanted to do and what she should do, she still wanted that slice of mocked happiness?

Hotch watched her as she covered herself with the blankets and rested on her right side, ready, as he could see, to let him hold her.

He could do just that. Huddle her for the night and pray the Lord it was enough to keep things going. Or he could do something.

"Prentiss?" he asked, his hand brushing her back, willing her to open her now closed eyes.

She finally obliged. He would not quit just because she refused to look at him.

She looked worn out, defeated, defenseless and yet so strong, he thought. She was the toughest, most resilient person he had ever known. Which didn't mean he could do whatever he wanted with her because she could tough it out.

"I'm sorry I upset you," he muttered as his gaze traveled her features freely.

"It's…" She meant to say _it's fine_. And she should say it. After all, it wasn't Hotch's fault. He couldn't know what was going on within her. He couldn't guess she had walked so far away from the limits of their playground, that she had broken the rules.

Knowing that there was more to that phrase but that she wouldn't complete it, he studied her carefully. He should probably keep his mouth shut. He shouldn't push, not when she seemed to have lost her self-confidence somewhere between the moment she had stepped out with Mick and now, and not when there was nothing he could do about it. But he had to know, "Can I ask you something?"

She closed her eyes. What could he possibly want? Her twisted sense of humor shone for the briefest of moments, her kidney? There wasn't much else of her he didn't have by now, whether she liked it or not and whether he knew it or not.

Taking her silence as a yes, he asked, "We'll talk about this, right? You'll tell me what's going on?"

He wasn't really asking. And none of them knew exactly what _this_ meant. Tonight? This particular discussion? This string of _just for tonight_ nights? Her feelings? His feelings?

She opened her eyes and stared at him, thinking. Even when he was being so awfully open, so willing to step out of his comfort zone, she had no idea of what he was thinking, of where he wanted to go with his questions. She did not know what he wanted to hear. He could be asking for a way out or a way in. Because, honestly, their thing had stretched long enough and now she was the one that was troubled by it. It was her call.

"I don't know," she replied after a few moments. She didn't know. She hadn't decided if it was time to step out of the fantasy or if she still had some strength for more. Because even though the game, the idea of being with Hotch had a pull on her she hadn't expected when they started, she had to consider that tonight she had tried to find reality with some else.

The implications of her answer, the various implications, were evident. They both knew it. And he nodded, eyes still fixed on her, "OK."

He turned the bedside lamp off and darkness, both real and metaphorical, fell on them with the density of mercury. She could not see the change in his eyes. She could not see that the thread of hope had vanished and there was little other than disappointment, a sort of sadness that rarely he dared to let out.

She closed her eyes again, ready to feel him plunk by her side. That was it, she told herself. Whatever _it_ was.

Instead, she felt a hand sneaking around her neck, pressing against her nape slightly, in that manner that was so Hotch that she melted again, as his lips fell on hers.

She allowed him to kiss her sweetly, deeply. But when he broke the kiss she muttered, "You can't fix this with sex."

Again, the definitions of _this_ and _fix_ were unattainable.

"I know," he replied. And he did know. He was perfectly conscious of that. And that hadn't been his intention. "I just want to kiss you," he added before leaning again.

And this time she didn't just allow it. They both kissed. This time, when he climbed on her, they both clasped around each other. And they continued to kiss, deep, deep kisses in which something that wasn't exactly passion was poured. Because if this was it, the proverbial _it_ in this kind of situations, then there was no reason not to let their feelings translate into caresses and twirling tongues. If it all could go to hell the next morning, as soon as she left the room, then why to deprive themselves of what was left of their fantasy? Why not to take the kisses as if the other really meant them? Why not to pull each other as close as they could and kiss as if they were really the right person to one another? As if there was going to be a tomorrow as bright and perfect as those kisses? To hell with the real tomorrow.

* * *

You hate me. I know. I am sooooo sorry. They are both OC, this is the sappiest thing I had even written. But there are even more horrible versions of this, trust me, you wouldn't have liked those better. Review anyway, please. Tell me to go to hell. The story continues in my head, but it can die there if you prefer.  
With that I end my own self battering.  
See you, or not.  
allthatisevil


	4. Chapter 4

Hi! Here comes what's written. It isn't much, but… well, you know what? I'll add an AN at the end.  
Once again, I apologize for grammar and spelling errors, not my mother language.  
I hope you enjoy.

* * *

It was 5.25 in the morning when Hotch's cell began to buzz. It was all it took to wake him up; the thing rattling against wood.

There was that moment of pure perfection. The moment when you just open your eyes, found yourself tied into a knot of limbs and don't even care which are yours.

As he blinked, Emily, still not fully awake, snuggled against him.

But then, the wall of bricks. Had last night really happened? Had it been as it was coming to her memory?

_Well, yeah_, her mind told her in a perfect imitation her actual tone.

While he stretched one arm to silence the phone, she untangled herself from him as casually as possible, which only made it more awkward. But her mind kept on yelling at her _act normal, act normal, act normal!_ And another part of her brain yelled back _what the hell is normal?_

Truth be told, she couldn't tell left from right, much less could she know what was normal within the limits of their –now cracked- alternative reality.

_Get up_, her brain told her and she did, it sounded normal enough.

_Get dressed_, was the next order and, again, it made perfect sense. How to do it, however, was another story. _Go to the bathroom?_ Not her usual behavior, so no. _Don't go to the bathroom but put the bra on while still wearing the shirt?_ What was she, twelve? He had seen her naked more than enough times for it not to be tantalizing. No. She was going to get dressed as she always did.

So she picked her bra up, held it by the strap with her teeth, and took the shirt off. She folded it without much care, as she always did because it was going to the washer anyway, and then put the bra on. Socks were next, then her trousers, then her shirt, then her holster. Everything at a slow, calm pace, as she would normally do.

There was movement behind her; she could hear him gathering the things for his shower. He always brought his clothes to the bathroom so he wouldn't have to freeze his ass getting dressed in a cold room, he said.

He was acting normal too and she saw it as a good sign.

Looking for his shoes, he found hers. After what she thought was a second of hesitation, he grabbed them and placed them by the bed, next to where she was standing.

Damn it, she had to talk now.

"Thanks," she said, but it came out in that raspy first-word-in-the-morning voice she hated so much. She cleared her throat. "Thanks," she repeated with her regular voice.

"Any time," he replied as he usually did.

Leaving her jacket on the bed, she sat. He was sitting there too, probably gathering his thoughts, she considered.

They gazed at each other for the first time that morning and they half smiled at their mocked mock of real reality. After putting on and zipping up her boots, she grabbed her jacket. It was time to leave.

She stood up and then everything happened as if it was a reflex. He clenched her hand, she turned to him, they both pulled, he stood up and they shared a peck on the lips.

It wasn't a peck this time, though. It lasted longer, they pressed a bit harder and it had a little more suction. The smacking sound that ended it was not a common occurrence either. The small stare that followed, however, was.

They squeezed their joined hands; she smirked a lopsided smile and gave him a quick little kiss, her lips just barely grazing his.

"Bye," she said as she turned on her hills and began to stroll towards the door.

"Bye," he responded only after her hand had completely slipped from his.

And she was gone, out to face the real world.

* * *

He recapped the entire thing in his head. For a second or two after he opened his eyes, he thought it had been just another night. The next second he remembered. And she began to act awkwardly.

He had to admit that it was indeed an awkward situation. He wasn't exactly comfortable. And he also had to admit that he was relieved when she started to pretend that everything was normal.

So he did the same. He brought his clean clothes to the bathroom and looked for his shoes. He found hers first and doubted for a moment. But normally he would give her the shoes- boots, actually. It was time to interact.

He placed them by the bed, next to where she was standing. She thanked him, he replied.

She sat as she always did, he smirked because she was smirking, and she put her boots on.

Then she stood up and it was a pavlovian response. Grab her hand, pull her in, give in to her pull, get up, kiss her.

But this time he didn't want to stop kissing her. So he pressed a little harder, sucked a little more. They stared as they usually did. He tightened his grip on her hand and he wasn't sure if she was doing the same. But she smiled what looked like a sad grin and brushed his lips with hers.

She said bye, her hand was gone, he said bye and then she was gone, snapping him out of the fantasy they had built up.

And he didn't have a clue of what was going to happen next. If anything at all. He didn't even know if he wanted things to change, to stay the same or to pretend they have never existed. Because, everyone, he told himself as if he was addressing a group of policemen, this was day time, no team member almost killed, no guy following anyone in sight, perfectly fine with his life as it was Hotch.

* * *

Ok, let me explain. This is not a chapter, this is a part of the chapter that I am currently writing but that is giving me some problems. I posted it anyway because I need a pat on the back, ok? That's the truth. This story is becoming more difficult to write than I had expected and I need some support. It's sad and it's pathetic. But it is what it is and I am not going to lie to you.  
With my vulnerability on display and a fresh pot of coffee, I'm off to continue this story.  
allthatisevil (or we could just change that to allthatisspineless)


	5. Chapter 5

Hello everyone. Thanks for nurturing my frail ego, it's very nice of you. And special thanks to Hotchlover and Silent Anonymous, since I could not send you guys a reply.  
Apologies again for grammar and spelling, don't hesitate and let me know if you spot errors.  
I hope you like what's coming.

Oh, disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds. Nor do I own the lyrics, which belong to NOFX's _The longest line._

* * *

Prentiss stepped out of Hotch's room and was confronted by reality. She had to put on an, if not happy, at least a content face. Or, at the very least, a face that didn't make her look as if her life had just blown up on her. Damn it! It looked like perfectly nice Mick had to take one for the team, even if he didn't know he was part of the team or who the other members were. Because there was no way she could tell JJ that she hadn't stayed with Mick without telling her where she had spent the night.

Anger, born from the horrible situation in which she was and into which she was now pulling other people, tainted her cheeks deep red. To some extent, that was good. JJ knew her. She knew that Prentiss would blush if she was coming back from a guy's room the morning after. Allowing her cheeks to flame then, she knocked and waited.

A very sleepy JJ opened the door and let her in, a teasing smirk on her face, "How was your night? Good company?"

Emily shot her a false mocked annoyed look, a cover for what was really lying beneath. She pondered what JJ would say if she actually knew who her company had been and how badly she had screwed her night.

Knowing that she exuded the smell of sex and fearing that traces of Hotch's personal scent also lingered around her, Emily quickly asked, in her most nonchalant tone, "Can I shower first?"

"Sure…." JJ slurred, "You can tell me all about last night after you shower…" she paused for effect, "Oh… you mean before_ I_ take a shower? Of course, go ahead," she finished still smirking at Prentiss.

She didn't even bother to roll her eyes, preferring to stride into the bathroom before JJ continued her triad or she snapped at her for no apparent reason.

After that, they followed their organized routine with the precision of a firefighter squad and with minimal teasing. At some point JJ had picked up that, if she didn't cut it off, Prentiss would not hesitate and simply shoot her.

They were checking out before anyone else, crumbling the old myth that says that women spend more time getting ready than men do.

As they waited, JJ strangely remaining silent, Emily thought that she only had to face the rest of the team now. That was a pleasant thought. Morgan, Reid when he paired with Morgan, Rossi with his much more discreet and much sharper remarks. Great. A five hours flight with them teasing her. Awesome. She slid her sunglasses on and begged that it was enough to keep them at bay. _Yeah, right, and then you can ride a unicorn to go visit Santa and ask for world peace for this Christmas_, she replied herself.

Cooper was the next to check out, then Gina. Everything was safe so far. With any luck, she though as she sat on one of the tacky chairs that one could say adorned the lobby, everyone else would come down with barely enough time to check out and then they would drive to the airport.

But she had no luck. Along with Prophet came Morgan and Reid, the three giggling like high school girls.

Before he even approached the front desk, Morgan practically shouted, the perpetual grin dressing up his face, "Look who's wearing shades… anything to be embarrassed of, Prentiss?"

The glare she threw on his direction passed though her dark glasses as if they were magnifying ones.

"Hm, cranky too… sleep deprivation can cause that," Reid pitched in.

Rotating her neck in that way that was a clear threat to anyone around her, she muttered, "If you don't shut your mouths, I swear to God…"

"That sounds as if she had a hangover, if I remember Vegas correctly," said JJ, taking the risk now that she wasn't alone.

She could not see them, but she was sure the people from the other team were chortling too. She closed her eyes. Fuck her and her stupid night of self loath, her need to be noticed by a guy and her even more stupid crave for another. She hadn't been this stupid since College. And even then she had been more reserved.

"Oh, come on, girl, everyone's allowed a night of fun," Morgan's voice told her from somewhere behind her.

Yes, fun… that was the irony of the century. It should have been a fun night. It should have cleared her head, make her see that there was something else, that there was no need to jump from one night to another somewhere in the undefined future, that there was a guy, another guy with whom she could _be_ a real couple instead of pretending.

"Even Reid had a few," the voice said.

"Please, Emily, there's no shame on spending the night with a hot…" That was JJ and, for some reason, she had stopped midsentence.

She opened her heavy lids; she hadn't noticed she was this tired until now, but with the night she had had, she wasn't surprised. But soon her lids woke up and went all the way up.

Mick was at the front desk and Rossi was coming down the hall with Hotch.

Silence rose while Mick wrapped things up with the clerk.

How much of the sassy comments he had heard, she did not know. How well he would take them, she did not know either. She could only pray that the man she had left aroused and unsatisfied and that had been so incredibly understanding would bear this embarrassment with her.

As Hotch checked himself and Rossi out, Mick turned and surveyed the scene. Then he looked at her and squinted.

Gazes from everyone began to bounce back and forth from her to Mick, and she felt as if she was in a perverse tennis match.

When a tease delivered by one of his team mates finally landed on Mick's lap and he smiled at them bashfully and smugly, she breathed again. Oh, she should love this man. She should pay his mortgage, his gas expenses and his long distance calls to England or any other place on the planet.

Mick smirked openly at her then, and a real, honest to God thankful smile stretched her lips.

Turning on her hills so Mick couldn't see her but Prentiss couldn't avoid her, JJ rounded her eyes and exaggerated a soundless WOW.

Everyone else –minus Hotch, Rossi and Cooper- kind of chuckled. Prophet shamelessly bumped Mick's arm with his fist and Morgan shook his head in approval of the gesture. Rossi, not willing to be left out but yet too much of a gentleman to taunt her in public, rose his eyebrows at her. God, no Rossi too. She could zigzag her way around the others, Hotch included, but not Rossi. Lying to Rossi was like lying to your cool uncle. Impossible. He had actually been there and done that before you were born.

"Let's go," Hotch's grim voice cut the air. "We have to be at the airport in half an hour," he added and no one doubted it was an order.

Everyone picked up their bags and, at different rhythms, they walked out. Emily purposefully was the last one to reach the street.

As she had expected, there were three vans. Cooper's team took one, Morgan, Reid and JJ strolled towards another and Hotch and Rossi headed to the third. Good, she thought.

As she followed Rossi, the safest van in the bunch as far as she was concerned, she heard JJ, "What? Not riding with your boyfriend?"

Emily glared at her because, had the assumptions about last night been correct, she would have. However, for better or for worse, she _was_ riding with her… _pretend boyfriend? Steady fake boyfriend? Only now and then and when they were both up to it just for tonight boyfriend? Former any of the above boyfriend?_

Whatever, she thought regaining the angry feeling from before. She would have half an hour without remarks, teases or comments about her sex life. And, more important, without any questions. No one was going to ask her how it had happened, how it had been or if they were planning on seeing each other again.

Since Rossi wasn't a morning person and Hotch could not be curious about her night, not that he would have ever showshown it, had he had anything about which he could be curious, she got a little bit of peace for the first time in… she really didn't care to do the math.

She was looking out the window, glad that the sun was coming up. When the sun was up and they were in their job personas, her mind didn't wonder about all the things that had troubled her last night. However, she sighed, this morning might not be like the others. Not unless the half hour drive cooled everybody off and they decided to act like adults. Which, she had to admit, didn't seem like it was going to happen. It sucked. She could not put last night behind her when people did nothing but remind her of it. She should have been more discreet. Now they were all talking about her sex life. God, so embarrassing!

* * *

When they arrived at the airport, she saw the other vans already parked and empty. Parked was reasonable. Empty, however, meant that their drive had taken at least five more minutes than the others. As she got off the car, she decided she preferred not to think about why Hotch had driven so slowly. The possible reasons were disturbing.

Her face must have shown something because Rossi gave her that sideways, one eye slightly narrowing, something's-not-right-here look.

She highly appreciated the fact that Rossi refrained from saying anything, limiting himself to cast another loaded look at her before he hurried away to safe her the discomfort of sharing an odd, silent walk.

Throwing her overnight bag over her shoulder, she cursed under her breath. The god damn thing had hit her bruise. The pain slowed her pace.

Once again behind her group, she watched as Hotch walk fast up to the plane. Damn it! She was not thinking about him. She was not going down that spiral. Damn it!

Trying not to display much of any emotion, be that anger, annoyance, embarrassment, guilt and/or gratitude, all of which she was feeling towards different people, she boarded the jet alone.

It was packed. Of course it would. They were having guests. She should have known that not many seats were going to be available. In fact, there were only three. Passing by the seat the three gossiper old ladies –namely JJ, Reid and Morgan, none of whom had cooled off- had surely saved for her, she glided to the back of the plane as graciously as she could manage.

Tough decision. Gina, Prophet and Mick on one side of the alley; Hotch, Rossi and Cooper on the other. Knowing that at the very least six pairs of eyes were fixed on her and that howling would be heard as soon as her rear touched the cushion, she put all the politeness her mother had taught her in her question, "May I?"

Half mocking her tone, half mocking her, Prophet answered, "By all means, please, do so."

She sat trying to shake the impulse to smack him –he didn't know her well enough to make fun of her- and, as she had expected, chuckles and one not really quiet howl were heard. She glared at no one in particular, therefore, at everyone that had made a sound.

"Fasten your seatbelts, we're about to take off," Hotch said as detached and solemn as he had always been.

They exchanged a look. A completely void look. Nothing at either end of the look. Of course he was normal Hotch. She wasn't expecting anything different. As a matter of fact, Hotch being just Hotch was reassuring.

She crossed her legs in that style of hers that was utterly feminine, not that she was aware of it, and took her book from her bag, keeping her eyes to herself. She was, however, mapping her surroundings. To her right, Prophet. Mick and Gina on the seats opposite to her, Mick on her diagonal, Gina in front of her. Across the alley, an empty seat to her left and Cooper on the next. Rossi by the window and by his side, on her diagonal, Hotch. Behind Mick and Gina, Reid by the window, JJ in front of him and Morgan at her side.

It did not escape her that Hotch, Mick and she shaped a rather equilateral triangle. A fact that had no relevance whatsoever.

Staring at the marked page of her book, she realized that her eyes were too scorched to focus. In fact, her eyeballs seemed to be drying out with each passing second. And every time she blinked, her eyelids gained more and more weight. Unconsciously, she began to slacken onto the comfortable back of the seat, her arms lost all muscular tone as they laid on the armrests and her fingers relaxed on her lap.

As she dozed off, she told herself it was absolutely reasonable to snooze given that she had had less than four hours of sleep per night for the past four days. If anything, everyone else being awake was a wonder.

In that state between awareness and oblivion, when the mind can amble freely but it is not completely shut off from the world, she heard the voices around her drifting away, becoming unintelligible. Simultaneously, her thoughts came to stand on the frontline.

Hotch.

Hotch… She had been analyzing their thing all night, but you can't trust your assess of a situation when you're literally immersed in it, so…

The rational part of her brain took the floor. Did he really bear that much weight over her? Enough to make her feel like she had felt last night? Because, seriously, how long had it been? It was April 2010 now and they had begun in… October. Yes, early October 2008. That gave… she counted and then recounted. Yeah, that gave eighteen months. The number surprised her… Ok, she told herself, eighteen months seemed like a lot, but wasn't. Because they had spent… how many nights together? Let's say… an average of twice a month for the past eighteen, that's thirty-six nights. Rounded up, forty nights, give or take a few. Ok, ok, maybe more like fifty, because there were those months… Yes, let's say fifty.

Ok, so fifty. Give or take. Over a year and a half. That's not a lot. It's not. Not if compared to regular couples. Couples, even those that don't get along as well as they did, spend easily five times their average of nights together. That without adding all the extra time. Lunches, dinners, weekends, maybe a getaway or a vacation, not to mention the couples that move in together.

Therefore, even when the span in time gave the impression of something… steady, the amount of time they actually shared did not. It was _just for tonight_ grown out of proportion. And, by its own nature, it didn't add up to anything.

However, another part of her mind intervened, the time they did share… The time they did share would bring shame to couples that were, by any standard, perfect. Their _just for tonight_ nights kicked JJ's and Garcia's most perfect nights in the butt. Seriously, she and Hotch kicked ass.

And she didn't mean the sex. No. She meant everything else. She meant… she meant…

Even in her sleep she sighed. She meant… she meant… Damn it! She meant discussing Strauss late at night on bed, staring at the ceiling while they played with their hands. She meant the way in which he caressed her head when he thought she was asleep. She meant grossing him up when they were having breakfast just for a laugh and actually getting a laugh. She meant reviewing cases in their pajamas and consulting one another and kissing in the middle of a sentence just because. And reprimanding him for not taking care of the scars. And fighting over how reckless they were sometimes or something meaningless like _rain the soap after using it_. And hear him cracking jokes out of the blue over something she said. And staring and drawing the other one to speak. She meant hearing stories about Jack. And how he tickled her when they made out, and god, when they were making out and they were so into the kiss they forgot they were supposed to be having sex. She meant the butterflies she felt when he was brewing coffee and knowing that if she ran her fingers up and down his spine he quivered. God!

It was so sad all of the sudden. Because all those corks and jerks, those tiny things and the other ones, and all the trust and the truth that swarmed them in those just one nights, they had nailed it. They worked. Even if it was just during those few hours splashed over months and month, during those times, their little pretense world was really perfect. So sad.

She shuddered and it disturbed her slumber. She opened her eyes briefly. Some time must have passed because no one was where they had been before.

Her head dropped to the left and she began to doze again, hearing bits and pieces of different conversations.

"How come they didn't share rooms?" Asked Ried.

"Cooper paid," was that Rossi?

"And how come you and Hotch didn't share a room while the rest of us had to?"

"Seniority." Yes, Rossi. And seniority her ass, she chuckled rather loudly for a person that is half asleep. Rossi wouldn't share a room as long as he could afford it. And he could.

And the voices and the noises muddled together and she was again locked in the hazed maze of her mind. The last thing she heard was spoken in a thick British accent.

Such a perfect guy at such a bad time. Such a bad luck. _This world is much too dangerous for someone lacking luck like me_. Lacking luck and saturated with stupidity, she modified the lyrics. But back to the luck, wasn't it unfortunate that they hadn't met before? Not before when they were both troubled kids, just before now. Because the chemistry… they would have been a new Big Bang. They would have collided and exploded and created a whole new world or life or, she didn't know, she wasn't a romantic, but they would have been energy let loose and focused at the same time. A few years back she would have been able to just crash into this guy full force because they clicked. They clicked. They…

Something rattled her, her eyes shot open and her head lashed up. Turbulence, she realized upon seen everyone trying to steady themselves and their mugs, some of which had spilled. Were they having breakfast? Or was it lunch? Or rather brunch? Or just a very large snack? What time was it?

She checked her watch. 10.30 AM West, which was 1.30 PM East. And since they were arriving at 3 PM this would constitute their meal, whatever the name. And she should have some. Or some coffee. Coffee to stay awake, because had she really snoozed for the past three and a half hours?

Ok, get up, get coffee, she told herself. But before she did, she took in the scene. Reid and JJ were talking at her left. Morgan was on the couch chatting with Gina and Prophet. Of course, she thought, they all shared that halo of aloofness. Whatever. That meant Cooper, Rossi, Hotch and Mick, yes, both of them together, were on the other set of seats. Oh, please! What was she, a twelve years old girl? _Yes, both of them together_… Did her thoughts have to sound as if she was writing in her childhood's diary? God! Pathetic.

She finally got up, pissed at herself and everyone else. If people wanted to talk, they were going to do it anyway. And she really wanted some coffee. As soon as she stood, eyes flew to her and she ignored them. She just walked straight to the kitchenette, grabbed a mug and poured some coffee. She looked for sugar but only found Splenda. Well, it was the magic ingredient; perhaps it worked and made her invisible.

She smiled at her own joke. That was more like it, she thought. And it was, indeed, more like her.

Almost as if each of her bones were being reassembled, she felt her spine straightening, her shoulders falling into place, her head lifting. Full grown, assertive Prentiss was back.

She tasted her drink. It was good, considering it was plane's coffee. Splenda was not quite like sugar, but she should know how to handle pretenses, right? She chuckled at her second Splenda-Emily combo joke and cursed a little because she had no audience.

When she walked back to her seat with a doughnut and a croissant –those rats hadn't left much-, she felt grounded again, secure. This time she didn't ignore the looks, she just didn't care. High school had ended a long time ago. If everyone else was going to act like kids, fine. She was above it. As far as they knew, she had slept with a guy. That's no reason to be ashamed, nor is it a reason to make fun of someone.

Then again, part of her confidence crumbled when she reached her seat. Comfortably stretched in the spot opposite to hers, with his headphones on, was Mick. She did that thing that was meant to be a smile but in which her lips actually curled a little bit downwards.

Mick, on his part, gave her a mischievous grin as he yanked the earpieces off. Between annoyed and amused, not to mention a tad grateful –no one else would come to talk while Mick was there-, she huffed before sitting down.

She took her time to place her food on a napkin over her lap for lack of a table. She wasn't quite sure she wanted to look back at him. But she should.

Mick, fingers interlocked over his stomach after turning his player off, called her attention, "So…" he began.

She lifted her eyes to him. His smirk drew a bashful smile to her face.

"I wore you out last night, apparently," he said loud enough for her to hear him, but quietly enough so no one else could.

She almost choked on the bit of croissant she was chewing. She blinked after her throat was clear, "Are you… having fun with this?" She asked in mild disbelieve. Mild because she was starting to think there wasn't much about this guy that was regular.

"Well, it is a little bit funny…" he said leaning towards her, laughter dancing in his eyes.

Out of reflex, she grunted a chuckle, "Like having my teeth pulled out," she said.

He smirked at her wittiness.

God, she should truly love this man, she thought as she stared at him through her lashes and a half smile lifted the left part of her lips. But her eyes became serious. He really didn't have any obligation or even reason to do this for her, to cover for her and her lack of spine. "Thank you," she uttered softly.

Mick, leaning in until he was barely three inches away from her, tilted his head, "I know I am a good shag, but this is the first time someone thanks me."

Before she could even chuckle, he braced himself on her armrests in a move that astonished everyone. Pushing up, he pivoted on his feet and landed on the seat at her right, not without making everyone believe, Prentiss included, that he was going to kiss her. He didn't.

When the shock wore off, even though her eyes were still rounded as plates, she let out a sound that resembled chortle. Staring at him and with a full beam on her face, although she was trying to go back to her unflappable expression, she muttered, "You have no shame."

"Which works for you, doesn't it?" he replied resting against his seat.

She scanned his words, his face, everything. She found no resentment. Was this guy for real? And she had to admit it, "Yeah, it does…"

He gave her another grin and she thought that he was indeed quite irresistible. Not just because of his looks, though they did gain him some points, but for that other thing that was behind his eyes, that didn't quite show upon meeting him but that became evident when he was staring right at her. God, she had no luck, no luck at all when it came to men. Or she did, but she sucked at timing.

She shook her head, amused by his gleaming gaze, intrigued by his attitude, "Why are you doing it?"

"Why am I doing what?" He replied lifting his eyebrows in the most charming way.

"Why are you helping me out?" She clarified.

He saw her look. It was that one that covered vulnerability with a mask of flirtatious coolness. He did it because he got it. He got all of it. He got things even she didn't get. But that was not a good answer, so he didn't use it. "You look like you could use a hand," he said, and, not wanting to make her feel uncomfortable, he added, "and it's best for my reputation if people think I actually wore you out rather than them knowing you left."

It wasn't the best phrasing ever and guilt fell on her like a bucket of bricks, "I am so sorry, Mick, so sorry. I really…"

Oh, bloody hell, he hadn't meant to, "It's ok, really, don't worry about it, I was just joking, no big deal," he hurried.

"I was going to my room, I…" She began again, sadness irradiating from her as every single bit of the night came back.

"No need to explain, I don't need any explanation," he cut her off.

They stared again. She saw it clearly. He understood. He really understood her. He understood the situation, he understood her past, he probably even understood how and why she had ended up where she was.

It's almost impossible to find people that understand you. They can try because they like you, or they love you, or they pity you. If they try hard enough, they might think they do. But most people just can't. Much less can they not judge you. At some point, because you are how you are, you're going to hurt them and they will be shocked and angry because they don't get it. They don't get you. But Mick did.

He was studying her as she thought. Such a good person under such a complicated circumstance. And, as if that wasn't bad enough, she looked so lonely. Strong, yes, but lonely and exhausted under her distant façade, to which she clung even now. But she was looking straight into his eyes. In fact, he was the only one that was allowed to look at her without receiving rays of fury in return. Which, he had to admit, made him a little proud.

She examined him as well. His smile, a winning grin, the kind that makes women sigh. His eyes, brown and sparkly, vibrant. His words, in which she still couldn't find a single thread of resentment. So good. This man was so good. For some reason, he wasn't telling her what a big tease she was, he wasn't blaming her for leading him on and then walking out on him. He wasn't even angry at her for using him to cover for her night with Hotch. As a matter of fact, he was giving her permission to do it. He was going over that and participating willingly into deceiving everyone just to keep her secret safe.

"Where the hell were you two years ago?" she whispered without meaning to speak out loud. She didn't mean to continue throwing mix signals at him. He was nice, he didn't really deserve it. She still had to live with the guilt of using him to elevate her self esteem, even if she didn't know at the time that that was what she was doing.

He was about to respond _I'm not at liberty to say_ in a sultry, deep, I'm-so-important-I-can't-disclose-that-information voice when the number hit him, "Two years?" his eyes popped out. Only then he realized that the whatever deal he thought Emily had with her boss wasn't, as he had fist assumed, a thing that had been latent until last night. "You've been…" He muttered, but suddenly stopped because he didn't know how to finish the question. Ok, he knew. He just didn't want to say it.

"A year and a half would have worked too," she replied.

Her face, her expression of utter and absolute helplessness mixed with some kind of acceptance and the fact that she wasn't trying to cover her slip… it all gave her a certain power of seduction he could not resist. He shook his head and smiled.

She smirked back, and their sort of link, the connection they had forged last night, strengthened. Yeah. They liked each other, they agreed silently, squinting at one another.

"I would go back in time if I could," he joked knowing that he had the right, "like in that book, the one with the boy that…"

"Nah-ah. No, don't name the book," she said shaking her head, but keeping her eyes on him.

He stared at her and realized, "You know the book, with the…" he said jokingly.

"Don't say it, don't say the name because…" Because she would have to either kill herself or kiss him; and they both knew that kissing wasn't an option.

Mick found incredibly entertaining, and maybe a little heartbreaking, that she wanted to want him, but couldn't. As he found awfully endearing that she didn't even bother to hide it. Not from him, nor from herself.

* * *

It kinda looks as if I was schizophrenic, right? I do have a point and I'm starting to believe I can actually take this story in the direction I had first intended. Though it will take more chapters than I had in mind.  
Let me know what you think, specially since the site's traffic thing isn't working.  
See you soon, hopefully.  
allthatisevil


	6. Chapter 6

Hello everyone.  
Thanks a lot for reading, for reviewing (Hotchlover, Careey and Caitie, since I cannot reply to you), for the advises (thanks, Miranda953, your suggestion really worked) and the support.  
Sorry for the spelling and the grammar, I check and I check but mistakes happen.

Disclaimer: Criminal Minds isn't mine.

I hope you like this chapter, though you might not.

* * *

Unable to resist it, to keep her mouth shut, to measure her words or actually think to whom she was telling them, JJ muttered, stealing her husband's accent and with that throaty voice she used when gossiping, "Those two are going to start a fire."

Hotch, who had been standing in front of the coffee pot for several minutes now, snapped out. He didn't speak, just looked at her as if asking to what she was referring. Not that he ignored it.

"I mean," JJ had always had that weird bond with him and seemed to know what he was thinking, "I've never seen Emily like that, have you?"

Thankfully, JJ didn't actually always know what was in his mind. But if by _like that_ she meant absolutely and completely focused on the man with whom she was talking while her eyes beamed a certain fresh light, then yes, he thought fisting his hands like he did when confronting a suspect, he had seen Prentiss like that. Never in public. Never without being at the receiving end of those looks. However, he couldn't answer that. In fact, there wasn't an appropriate answer he could give. He did not gossip. He didn't comment on his team members' personal lives. At the most, he might sneer at someone else's remark, but he didn't actively participate. It wasn't professional. As it wasn't to stare at your subordinate while she shared what looked like a very private conversation with a fellow FBI agent. Which, nonetheless, he had been doing since he had gone to get a cup of coffee that, by the way, he hadn't gotten yet.

But JJ was not interested in conversation, she just needed to vent, "I mean… not even at the bar…" she continued without even caring if Hotch was paying attention to her or not, preferring instead to witness the unbelievable scene developing on the other end of the cabin.

Because, she had to admit, they seemed completely different. Mick was basically unruly, with his casual wear and his messed up hair. Emily, on the other hand, was always properly dresses, up to code, and JJ couldn't recall ever seeing a single hair out of place… until that morning, of course, she smirked. Mick was so cool, lay back, while Emily, though not exactly un-cool or weird, could be a bit nerdy. But they looked good together. The chemistry between them was so evident, the way in which they seemed to connect, so sweet.

"They're kinda cute, don't you think?" She asked finally looking at Hotch.

She found Hotch's stern, if not angry, glare directed at her. Then she realized she had just asked _Hotch_ if a couple was _cute_. Opening her blue eyes beyond the limits of physical possibilities, she smiled before looking down to her feet and leaving, feeling like an absolute idiot.

Hotch went back to the coffee. That had been his reason to get up and that was what he was supposed to be doing. So he rinsed his mug and refilled it.

He began to stroll back to his seat but found that it was taken. Reid was sitting there and JJ was on the opposite one. They were chatting with Cooper now that Rossi was snorting his exhaustion away. The couch was full too and, even if it hadn't been, he was not in the mood to listen to those three agents at the moment. They had a certain cool-kids-on-the-block disdain that he preferred to avoid.

Which left the seats at the end of the plane. He could stand by JJ, instead, and insert himself into the conversation they were having. But he had been talking all morning, listening to stories he already knew. And he was tired. So he walked to the empty booth and took a seat by the window.

If she saw him approach, she didn't acknowledge him. Though it was possible she hadn't notice him. She was engrossed in her conversation with Mick, which seemed to be forcing them to be a little too close considering they were colleagues, he thought.

It was a good thing that he was serious almost all the time, that people thought that he didn't remember how to smile, because sitting there, listening to the murmur, to the low key sound that didn't seem like giggle as much as a grunt and that he knew so well, Hotch could not keep his jaw from clenching.

What the hell had happened last night?

How the hell had they gotten to the point of something like last night happening?

He was disappointed and angry at himself for being unable to stick to his daytime persona. He hadn't had that problem in a very long time. And in that opportunity, barely after the first _just for tonight_, he had dismissed it saying that it was a natural reaction to one of his team members being in such a dangerous situation.

But still, now, he couldn't help it anymore than he had last night. Because, if he had to be honest, he had no reason to go out and tell her that the plane would leave at 7. He could have texted her, emailed her. He could have asked JJ to tell her. And she had seemed so upset. So mad at him. And that had made him feel so good, even when that was wrong and despicable. The fact that he could bother her that much had been very rewarding.

As it had been the confirmation, as soon as she rested against him and he could smell her, that she hadn't had sex with Mick. And that she was willing to stay with him.

But what had actually made him proud of himself was the illusion he had had of being able to ease her. It was something to which he had gotten used to. He knew their nights of pretense soothed her when she was upset or sad or when she felt that the world was out of balance. Those pieces of time when they were just like any other couple, better, actually, than any other couple, helped her to find some sort of consolation.

But last night things hadn't gone as they usually did. Nothing had been as it usually was and after her vague _I don't know_, he had had the feeling, for the first time in over a year, that it might just be the last night they played their on-going game.

It was obvious why, now. It was obvious that she was attracted to Mick. That it hadn't been just a spur of the moment thing. Hearing them muttering things to each other and for what he had seen, he was sure she was attracted to him.

And she had every right. After all, Emily and he weren't possible. And things that aren't possible are not real, they don't exist. They were nothing. They were the tree that falls in the forest. If there's no one to hear it, what does it matter if it makes a sound? They didn't matter. They weren't real.

However, and that had been his mistake, he had been acting as if they were. Having her pretty much at his disposal and being at hers had created the fantasy of something real beyond the strict limits of the hours they shared their charade.

He had been perfectly fine with it stretching over the month because he had been sure it would just go on. Because they were very good at it. Damn it. She was very good at it.

She was the perfect fake girlfriend. She spoke her mind or reminded quiet according to his needs. She never failed to answer his questions. Prentiss was the one person with whom he had been able to communicate without being pitied, patronized or judged. That was idealizing, he told himself; she did judge him sometimes, but she was usually right.

This situation, her distress, it was his fault. He would have to kick his own ass and throw frightening stares at himself. Mick was free of all charges. Which infuriated him more than being guilty, Hotch thought and immediately felt guiltier for being such a horrible person. The man had saved her life. He should be grateful. He should write him a recommendation. Or, he realized, he should get up and beat the crap out of Mick for not informing through the radio that the unsub was not dead. That would have kept her safe.

But he could not do that. And he wasn't even sure he should say anything directly to Rawson. It might have been an honest mistake. Rawson could not know that Prentiss would approach the edge with her gun down and he couldn't know that Bell hadn't cracked his skull when falling on the cornice. It was an honest error, he decided. Still made Hotch want to knock him.

But, he returned to his previous line of thought because thinking about Mick boiled his blood, it was his own fault.

It was his fault. He didn't exactly know why she was so tormented last night, but seeing that Mick had done nothing to offend her, it must have been his fault. Something he had done.

But, that didn't make sense. Because she _had_ stayed. She had said that she was mad but that she still wanted to be with him. And everything had been fine until he asked. And she had said it was her fault. Being mad at him was her fault. And then it all went to hell. Probably because he was excessively confident. And why wouldn't he be confident? She had chosen him.

Yes, yes, awful, he thought not really believing it this time, as he got upset. Possessiveness is instinctual. It's human nature. It's impossible not to feel proud when the woman you want chooses you. He had been feeling proud ever since the first night. He could accept it if she didn't want him anymore, even if she hadn't ever wanted him, but whilst he believed, for a reason or another, that she was choosing him; he had every right to feel proud. And he had every right to feel superior to all the men she wasn't choosing, damn it!

Damn it! He repeated. He was not supposed to be that angry. The idea of her not choosing him shouldn't irate him this much. Not six hours ago, he didn't even care what was going to happen next.

And yet, nine hours ago he had decided to kiss her for as long as he could just in case. And he had barely even slept, preferring to be awake and aware, staring at her asleep, though not relaxed face, burning his brain trying to figure out what needed to be fixed and how the hell to fix it. Or if it could be fixed at all. Or if it should. It probably shouldn't. He didn't care at the moment.

What couldn't be fixed with sex? Her decision to be with Mick now? Or just not to be with him? And why didn't she want him now?

She had realized, hadn't she? She had seen right through him, she had picked up the signs, the good and the bad signs, and she had realized. Damn it!

He should have concealed it better. What was he saying? He should have never let it happen. He should have never… let it happen. He should have cut it off the second he became conscious of it.

But the fact was that it had only come to light now. He hadn't known before. If he had, he would have stopped.

But he hadn't seen the harm before. Before, their thing was just what it was. A night every once in a while, which was always supposed to be the last even when they both knew it wasn't. Yes, it lasted just a few hours, it lacked continuity, and _it wasn't possible_. But during those hours, they were the best. During those hours, they had that thing that was almost impossible to get. It was fake, OK… Well, no, it wasn't fake. It was real for as long as it lasted. It was very real, tangible, breathable. A charade, a game, a bunch of nothing that was more real, more believable than his damn real life. A pretense that had pulled him through the God damn hell he had been living.

And no, he didn't mean just the sex. He loved the sex, yes. He loved that she was so adorable when she dragged him into practices that had ashamed him, that had seemed degrading until she had shown him that it was not the act, it was the intention what mattered. What mattered was that they both wanted to do it.

But it wasn't just that. It was the liberty to rest his hand on her stomach when she had her feet popped up against the wall and they each read their case files.

Her weird fascination with his hands; discussing, not agreeing and still smile at each other; the feeling he got when he woke up in the middle of the night and heard her murmuring songs he didn't know; looking up when he was doing something and founding her staring at him. Those things were real. Her hand, lips or nose gliding across his torso in the same what they had before the scars; and laughing at her; and making her snort by saying something sweet. Her tremors when he brushed his fingers across the small of her back looking for those dimples. Those things were real too. Until the next morning, everything was real.

Damn it! Now God damn Mick's hand or head would rest on her stomach, and he would hear songs that he probably did know. And Mick could offer and get that around the clock. And Emily blushing at some manly display of bravery and strength would be a common occurrence. And his anger towards them both was the result of his own stupid mistake. Of not realizing sooner that for Emily those one night stands was that. And she throwing herself in those intimate moments was Emily being Emily, all in into any situation.

He held no grip over her. Regardless what he had thought, or had wanted to think, she did only seek comfort those nights. They were _just for tonight_ things for her.

He should have known. Or at least he should have prepared himself. But then again, how could he prepare for something he didn't know was happening?

Like any regular man in a normal situation, he was now trying to decide if he should step up or let her go. But he could not step up. It wasn't a real possibility for him. He had known it all along. Since the beginning. Which was why Prentiss' acceptance of those once in a while encounters had been a good thing. Back then Prentiss going along had been perfect.

Now he was screwed and he couldn't say why exactly, because his mind had been jumping from one possible reason to another without much logic. And the chuckles and soft laughter continued to come from his right. Damn it!

"What's on your mind?" Rossi said cutting his rant.

Hotch didn't snapped, nor did he whipped his head in surprise. He was too much in control of his body and facial expression to slip in that kind of mistake. At least when he was on the job. Not always, he corrected himself, because today he had lapsed three times in an effort to prevent mockeries at Prentiss' expense.

He had to reply, he realized. And something reasonable, "I have a meeting with Strauss as soon as we land."

"Ouch…" he said sympathetically.

Hotch noticed then that Rossi was fastening his seatbelt. "Are we landing?" Stupid question really because, glancing around, he saw everyone doing the same.

Morgan and Prophet came to sit with them while Gina had sat with Reid, JJ and Cooper.

Funny how everybody leaving Prentiss alone was much worse than them picking on her. Damn, he was an awful man.

"Which means your meeting is taking place in half an hour," Rossi replied.

The landing was quiet and easy. And cordialities were exchanged as they got off the jet. Hotch did not stay for that. He jumped into the first car he saw and waited for Cooper.

He could not resist, however, the temptation to watch through the review mirror how and where everyone went. And he saw the final mocked dismissive glance Prentiss gave Mick and his wink to respond. He looked away then, a new flash of anger rushed through his body.

* * *

OK, Hotch came out OOC, sorry, I'm not a man and I have little to none insight into the male mind.  
I hope you enjoyed it anyway.  
I think I'll wrap this up within a week, but the next two chapters will be a hard to write and organize. So help me out, review, it makes me write faster.  
See you,  
allthatisevil


	7. Chapter 7

Hello, everyone. Thank you so much to all of you for just reading, but especially to those who reviewed (Caitie, Hotchlover and Careey included, of course). More about this at the end.

As always, my English sucks, so bare with me if you will.

Oh, this starts after "A rite of passage"

Disclaimer: Criminal Minds is not mine.

* * *

"I can't make it tonight. Stupid Morgan blew my eardrum," she informed him in a rather exasperated tone as soon as he picked up the phone. "What is it with you boys and big guns?"

He huffed and used his more playful tone, "You know what they say, the guns, the cars…"

"Is everything about sex with you?" She replied annoyed, majorly pissed, though not at him.

"Me? Yes. Men in general? Yes," Mick answered what was obviously a rhetorical question, but unable to resist the temptation of teasing her. It was too much fun when she was upset.

"Oh, shut up" She replied irritated.

"You're in a bad mood… Is it just the ear or…does it have something to do with _Hotch_?" He said amused, with that security that people has when they are the only keepers of your secrets and therefore you cannot afford to tell them to shove it. He was fairly sure Hotch hadn't showed up as she had half expected.

God, he could be such a child! He used his charm and his stupid sick sense of humor as if they were two fifteen year old kids. But she found those liberties he took somehow comforting. Which was why she decided not to chew his head off, and just replied, faking –though maybe not that much- annoyance, "You know what? I won't even dignify that with an answer. Call you tomorrow," and with that she hung up on him.

If she had to be honest, she thought as she drove back, her bad mood was Hotch related. She wasn't precisely looking forward to that conversation, but he had sort of asked if they were going to talk. Her anger morphed into despondency then. Because even though she knew she might refuse to explain things, it would be good to know he cared enough to show up.

She could make the move. She could just knock on his door. She had done it before; it was the way it worked. But, perhaps, his absence put things in perspective. Or it was the answer to a question she wasn't exactly ready to ask. Because, ok, at this stage, she was the one that had to decide if they could continue with their none-relationship or not, if one guided oneself by the events of their last encounter, but, what was the point in exposing herself if he had made up his mind already?

It was fine, really, she thought as her face crunched in an expression that resembled motion sickness more than acceptance. It was fine. Maybe they were finally following the _just for tonight_ rule. That rule basically said that there would not be other nights. After breaking it for a year and a half, they were sticking to it now, apparently. And it was a good thing, she kept telling herself. It really was. She could stop her delusion and finally set both feet on reality. Because they could not have any other kind of relationship, could they? No. And not that what they had had was a relationship, she reminded herself for the umpteenth time in a week.

It felt like a break up, though. That sense of void somewhere inside, of something misplaced within her, as if her organs were playing musical chairs. God, she felt so feeble, childish and stupid!

* * *

Ok, yes, transition.

Remember when about a week ago I said "I'll wrap this up within a week, but the next two chapters will be a hard to write and organize…"? Well… it ain't gonna happen.

The thing is, scenes keep popping up in my head, and they jump back and forth in time … some are absolutely irrelevant, some are relevant but not indispensable, some are milestones that could define the course of the story. I don't know. This is driving me crazy. My mojo is gone.

Again, thanks a lot for reviewing; you are all really nice and sweet. It's a little overwhelming. So thank you.


	8. Chapter 8

Hello, everyone. Thanks a lot for still reading this (if you're still are). Hotchlover, thanks again for reviewing.

I'm sorry it took me so long to update, but I'm still fighting myself over this story. More about that at the end.

Sorry for the spelling and the grammar, this chapter might be worse than the previous ones.

Disclaimer: yeah, Criminal Minds, not mine.

* * *

Damn it! She really wanted to go out, vent, forget, have fun. She wanted noise and drinks and people. Instead, she had a throbbing headache and an intermittent, sharp, pricking pain in her ear, as if a needle was being inserted right into her brain through her ear. She popped a couple of Ibuprofen pills into her mouth and swallowed them with bathroom's tap water.

She went into her dark bedroom. The lights were off, she couldn't really handle any sort of brightness at the moment. She couldn't handle sound either. But she wanted the pills to kick in before she went to bed. She decided to take a shower to kill time and maybe relax.

With the water hitting her with the perfect amount of pressure, she began to loosen up a little and her anger over her ear injury dimmed down. Unfortunately, that sent her brain back to the topic about which she shouldn't be thinking. He wasn't showing up, was he? He was not coming to hear the answers. She had expected he would, if not for any other reason, at least out of sheer curiosity. Or to clear thing up, to give it a clean cut. They were rooted in honesty. They asked the questions and gave the answers. And her answer had been honest. Vague, uncertain, but sincere. But they had never given up, they had never quit over the other one's hesitation.

His cowardness infuriated her, sent her body into full tension. He had seemed so open, so willing to… deal with whatever was going on with her that his sudden change was simply… inacceptable. Ok, ok, it was still acceptable. They still where within the time limits, the ten days maximum, if she took the last few month as a parameter. Ten days was the longest period of time they had spent without lapsing. There was still some time left. Not much.

And yes, yes, of course she could go. She could go and ask, or explain, or explain why she wasn't explaining. But no. She was not going to do that. No, she told herself as she shook her head under the falling water. If he didn't care, she wasn't going to do anything. She had decided a long time ago that she was not going to be a martyr over someone else's needs. She was done playing the masochist role. That was old Prentiss. And yes, old Prentiss had been craving for attention, had surfaced, and tried to rein her actions, but no. Not this time. Not anymore.

If he came, if he set the cards on the table, she might go all in. She might be honest, throw everything onto him. Not as a sign of surrender. She was not going to give him that much power. She would give him knowledge so he could understand why she was stepping out. Because they had fucked it up. They had totally fucked it up. It felt too much like a relationship, like a true, real, deep relationship. At least for her. He might just have been accepting the company, the bond for those many hours at a time and nothing else. Because, she had to admit, Hotch choosing her might not have even been a choice. She might just be the only one that fitted his needs at the time. And it was fine, it was just freaking fine. Because, at the time, he fitted hers too. And, in the meantime, he had also fitted them.

Shit, it still hurt like hell. Damn it. She shouldn't have been so reckless, she thought as she shampooed her hair with an excessive amount of force. She should have paid more attention.

But now it was fucking late. The thing had jumped from her subconscious mind into her conscious one. Now she knew. She could refuse to name it, she could pretend it didn't exist, she could compartmentalize her ass off, but her fucking needs had changed. Damn it! She hated having _those_ needs.

Those needs made her feel frail, fragile, weak. She wanted to go back to kicking butt and braking bones, and taking punches. And coming out of it all in one piece and prove that she was just as strong and self-assured as she had been before. She wanted to go back to slightly masculine. And she also wanted to be appealing and noticeable. Yes, damn it, it was stupid. It was stupid and pathetic, and a touch schizophrenic. But she truly wanted to be herself, her Agent Prentiss self and the other self too. The self that had, in fact, made an impact on a guy that was handsome and attractive, and a little risky, a little sizzling, and that was so incredibly nice and understanding and who was willing to be her pal. The fucking perfect catch. Except, of course, she didn't want him. Why would she want the man that was perfect for her? That was not her MO. No, her signature was to bury herself in a deep, deep well of crap. And fall for the other man, the one that was bigger than life, she almost punched herself at that weak, clichéd line that had popped in her head at the mere thought of a man that was closed as a clamp and that covered everything with a thick coat of anger. Except during their nights.

Again, her anger simmered down. Because, whether she wanted to admit it or not, she had been extremely proud. She had been so proud of herself. He trusted her, he wore no masks, he gave it all. And that last night… that last night, maybe because she wanted to believe it, maybe because it was real, maybe because he had perfected the character, he had been exactly what she sought. The same warmth from that night spread. Best sex ever. The memory clenched her heart, her stomach, her lungs. So delicate, so safe, so reciprocal if such a word accommodated to the situation. She had felt so cared for that night, so taken care of, so important to him. Since the hand on her shoulder all the way up until he asked about Mick. And again since she came out of the bathroom until she fell asleep. And once more in the morning, since he grabbed her hand until she closed the door behind her. And never again since that moment.

And, damn it, who wanted that, anyway? Who wanted to be that soft? That dependent on someone else's view of oneself? She yelled at herself as she shut the water down.

Whatever, she thought as she toweled herself. If she couldn't push it back to the back of her head, if she couldn't crush it down, at least she could tough it out. She could wear it off. She could ride it until… until… Until what?

It was such a depressing idea. Because, really, until what? What had to happen for her need of him to extinguish? She pondered as she put her pajamas on. Because, truth be told, honest to God and herself… if he came to her door right now wearing either sadness, happiness or anger on his face, or if he simply asked her what was wrong, she would transform into a spineless, brainless, tender ball of nothing, even if she was mad. Just because of the privilege, even more significant in it rareness, of being the one that saw the private Hotch. Just because he gave her comfort and warmth … God, Brainless and spineless.

As she got into bed and prayed for sleep to come soon, one only thought came to her mind. Love sucked.

* * *

It had been over fifteen days ago. That felt like a small eternity. And that was not normal for their late schedule. But maybe it was going back in time, pretending that Mick Rawson, the night in San Francisco had never happen. Or further back, a few months, or even a year, when things were much clearer, when it was what it was and not that other thing that he had come to understand just now. Or maybe he just wanted to pretend that none of it had ever happened. Or that it all had happen and that it was time to end it. He hadn't decided yet. He excused himself saying that he didn't have time to ponder and wonder and mope as if he was a high school boy. He had work, he had a son, he had responsibilities. He was not, had never been, the type of man that… his lips disappeared into a thin line. That was the problem, wasn't it? He was a horrible distant husband, and he was a terrible open lover. Because, at this point, that was how he was referring to it, to them. They were/had been lovers.

Lovers. As if it had been an affair. A distraction. Something that does not last or, if it does, does not imply nor warranties a future. Something out of which one is free to walk away whenever one wants, no explanation needed.

And, frankly, did he have to give an explanation? Was there something that could be sorted out by saying things out loud? Hadn't that screwed things up? Because, perhaps, if he had kept his mouth shut, if hadn't asked, if he had just held her and watched her sleep... The point of inflection, the moment in which the line of their continuum bent, had been when he forced her to decided if there would be another night or not._ We'll talk about this, right? You'll tell me what's going on?_ He had used future tenses. Damn it!

But, again, he had felt he had the right. He was sure they were marching at the same pace down the same path. He had been so sure, even if he hadn't acknowledged it. Even if he didn't want to have _the_ conversation. Even if _the_ conversation could not happen because it would have brought things to reality. And questions much more complicated than _did you set the alarm? _would have had to be answered. Questions he did not want to answer, nor did he want to ask. _The_ question that could, and would, end everything whether they wanted or not.

However, it had taken him an hour and a half on a jet to be convinced of the opposite. She was not walking _with_ him, she just crossed to his lane every now and then, and she just moved on afterwards. Had it been like that all along? No. It couldn't have. If it had, this thing would have blown up before.

He flipped through the channels. He wasn't watching anything but he needed to do something, even if it was pointing the remote and pressing the buttons. It was then that the little thing that had been swimming somewhere in his head jumped in front of him in the form of a concrete thought. Of course he would notice, he snapped at himself, noticing things was his job. But he had some kind of delay when it came to Prentiss and everything made itself evident days, weeks or, apparently, months after the fact.

The cell phone thing, for example. She was suddenly very attached to her cell. She didn't talk on the phone all the time, nor did she text. She didn't even check for miss calls. She just kept her cell with her at all times. If she went to brew coffee, she took her cell. If she went to get a snack, she took her cell. If she went to the restroom, she took her cell. Even when she was chatting nearby her desk, she palmed her pockets until she knew in which of them her cell phone was. It was, Hotch thought, a drastic change on her behavior. She had never been so dependent on it. But she wasn't now either, was she? No. She wasn't waiting for a call. She was just guarding her phone. The realization enraged him.

Hotch also noticed her mood swings. Prentiss always had her emotions floating out of her. She was transparent, much like her skin, he thought before clenching his jaw and reprimanding himself for such a lapse. She was mostly stable, though, he continued his analysis. Unless there was something particular about a case that triggered a strong emotion, she was usually in a stable mood. And even when that happened, when something bothered her, she wore that feeling out. But since their return from San Francisco, she seemed to bounce around states. She was fine, but then would suddenly lash out for no reason at all. Which, he had to admit, even if it was as vile and self-centered as he had been that night, was gratifying. She wasn't yet totally gone. She was not utterly out of his grip and influence. He still had, even if by making her angry or snappy, power over her mood. He was a horrible man, yes, but he was perversely proud of having her at least a little flustered.

Which didn't matter at all, he thought as he turned the TV of and a new, invigorated rush of anger, of resentment towards himself and his life, ran through his veins with the strength and violence of an electric shock.

* * *

You hate me? Don't, I'm a nice person. Just a little troubled.

As means to explain myself, I'll tell you that this story is actually the middle of a longer, much, much longer thing that has been going on in my head for some time. It begins at the beginning, that first night, and ends somewhere in the future, maybe a year or a year and a half after this particular point in time. So, as I write, scenes from before and after jump on me. That's one of the reasons for my delay updating.

Ok, that said, I hope you're still enjoying this. Let me know either way, 'k?

allthatisevil.


	9. Chapter 9

Hello everyone. I'm sorry this took so long, but you know me by now, don't you? Well, if you don't you'll find out more at the end.  
Thanks to all the reviewers. Have I mentioned that I love you? I do.

This chapter is unrevised by obvious reasons, those being that I am me. And I'm sorry for the spelling and grammar errors too.

And finally, the disclaimer: No, I don't own Criminal Minds. If that was the case, both JJ and Prentiss would remain permanent, full time characters (btw, WTF?).

* * *

After a few weeks, Prentiss was almost fine. Most of the time. At least she wasn't angry anymore. But she had those moments when she understood, not just with her mind, but with her entire, whole being, that she still had that need to… have him around. When, in the middle of the day or the night, when she was with Mick, or at work or home and something absolutely insignificant occurred. As a reflex, she thought that she would mention it next time. Or when it was late at night or early in the morning and she missed the hand that rested somewhere on her body, or just to straddle him to chat and play with his fingers while he looked at her with that mixture in his eyes that she had never been able to break down and decipher, but that made her feel unique, extraordinaire, dazzling. Or when she thought of him out of the blue, for no reason at all. During those moments, something sunk. And she had to stop and think, find what it was. And yes, of course, it was _that_. The realization. Ok, store it, put it somewhere else, in the darkest corner of her subconscious. Where it was before. Before it all went to hell on Mick's hand or Hotch's questions. It kept popping out, though, and she was beginning to get used to it. To being surprised and accustomed to it.

Regardless of how she felt, she never cried. Not one single tear. Nor did she ever talk about it. Mick mentioned it sometimes, made a small reference. Maybe to strip it of the darkness those moments brought upon her, or perhaps just to get her to talk, to get some of it off of her chest. Even when she never replied, she didn't mind his comments. After all, his knowledge of the situation made it real. It wasn't just some fucked up dream she had had and couldn't shake off. Yes. Having Mick around helped.

She liked Mick. She thought Mick was great. She thought he was awesome. She still thought that she would have loved to meet him two years ago to smash into him, or twenty-five years ago to go through life with him. It was amazing, to some extent, that they hadn't crossed paths before. For the little they knew about each other, they had pretty much lived parallel lives. They sure got one another, even if they didn't know every fact, they got how things had carved them. She loved that they were kindred souls of sorts.

It was a new, refreshing feeling. Not really, not that new nor refreshing. No. She had had that, that sense of being able to just _be_. The thing was that with Mick there wasn't a time limit. With Mick, it wasn't until morning and then back to SSA Prentiss without knowing when or if she would be herself again. With Mick, she could be Prentiss all the time.

She also liked that he didn't actually _ask _about Hotch, but that when she went into that state of instant comprehension, he smiled at her. He smiled that grin that was death for not loving him, with that thing in his eyes that was unreadable and evident.

And his constant innuendos busted her ego. She felt slightly guilty about that, though, because it made her wander if he still wanted something with her, it made her think that perhaps she wasn't being clear enough. But everyone has their moments of weakness, some sort of evilness and selfishness, when they do something even if it might not be decent.

She loved the texts and the calls and the outings, when he pointed to her that men were watching her and why they were watching her. When he told her how beautiful and intelligent she was. Again she felt at fault, perhaps she was still leading him on. But her fear dissipated when he left with a girl wrapped by his arm.

She absolutely loved that when he made those incredibly egotistic, narcissistic comments –a counterpart of her own self-referential humor- she could knocked him off of his pedestal with her quick, sardonic comebacks.

She truly, completely loved that Mick helped her to regain some of her independence from the team.

And, sometimes, when they were chatting, she would look at him and absolutely hate that she didn't love him.

* * *

Unlike Emily, Hotch was still made a ball of fire underneath his skin. He was glad anger was his dominant emotion, or at least the one that he let out, because, since every single one of his emotions was always covered up with anger, upon seeing him enraged no one could say if it was personal, professional or simply everyday annoyance related anger. No one would say that his invigorated grimness and dryness were born out of jealousy. And, quite frankly, no one had any reason to believe he was jealous of anything or anyone.

But he was jealous. He hated that they talked –how come no one else had noticed?- he hated that they went out –again, how the hell they didn't see it?-. Yes, he hated all that. But what he really hated was that there _was_ a Mick. Loathsome as it was, he detested the idea of someone else understanding her. Of some other human being, most precisely a good looking, self-assured, less complicated man being there, existing, supporting her. Being available for her. And to whom she was receptive.

He hated that she was in a better mood. That she laughed when someone told a joke.

He absolutely hated the attention she was paying to her hair. Not when they were out working on the field, there she was the Prentiss he had always known, she tied her hair in a ponytail and let it get as messed as she always had. However, when they were in Quantico… she wore it in different styles. And she had begun to use more makeup again. He hated it. She looked beautiful, yes, he was not discussing that. But she had always looked beautiful. What enraged him as that she was _trying_ to look more beautiful.

Of course, he had no idea of why she was doing it. Just for her? For him? For somebody else? But it really didn't matter, or at least it shouldn't.

Luckily, he could still manage his irritation. That was a good sign. He could still act normal at work; he could still focus his mind and energy on the cases. And he was also able to be normal at home. He made sure of it. He did not let his troubled mental state leak out; he didn't want his son or Jessica to notice. But at night when the daytime affairs were out of his mind and he was in bed, knowing that it would be cold and silent, when he came to understand not only rationally but physically that he couldn't pick up the phone and ask her to come over, that he wouldn't be falling sleep surrounded by her scent, comfortably knotted with her and that he wouldn't wake up and receive a kiss on the whatever part of his body that was closer to her lips, his feelings were divided. He wanted to get up and go to her apartment. He wanted to beat those feeling out of him. He wanted to tell her to stop acting as if everything was fine because _he_ wasn't fine and it was unfair. He absolutely loathed her for moving on. Because she was leaving him behind, standing still, watching her drift away and unable to stop her.

He was awful and he knew it. But wanted her to be as miserable as he was. He wanted her to suffer as much as he did, if not more. He wanted her to show up at work with dark circles under her eyes and a grim expression on her face. He hated her for not being as destroyed as he was. He hated her so damn much. And he hated himself even more for hating her.

Especially when she wasn't laughing. In those moments when she spanned out, he could not hate her. When she stopped what she was doing. When in the middle of reviewing a case file, or typing another she lifted her head, stared at nothing, that expression she usually wore when processing information, her lips agape as if starting to form an _oh_ that didn't ever come out, her eyes slightly narrowed, her back a little hunched, he could not hate her then. In fact, he was curious when that happened and perhaps even a little pleased. But that thing that leaked from her in those moments, the realization, that gloom that surround her in those precise instants, was quickly shut down, and she went back to whatever she was doing. He wished he could see her eyes then. To understand what was going on in her head, to peek inside her as he used to do when they were talking about anything or they just stared and he was free to give her a reassuring caress.

Yes, he missed it. He missed it all. He missed that when he was repulsed by his selfishness all he wanted was to sit between her legs and feel her God damn fingers roaming over his back or chest or arms or scalp. He missed that all it took for him to feel better was her hand in his.

And yet, he hated being so pathetic, so over-sentimental, self-pitying and damned spineless. Because if he went over there, to her place, what was the worst that could happen? Finding her with Mick or somebody else? Wouldn't that be better than staying home and ponder? Sure, he would feel the most basic, visceral instinct to beat the crap out of whoever was with her and take her home with him. Neanderthal. He was a Neanderthal. But he had established that those were natural reactions that could be restrained.

Actually, he thought, the worst that could happen was that she told him, plain and simple, that she didn't want him. That it had been fun and good while it lasted, but she wasn't interested anymore.

That idea, even when it would put a clear end to everything, transformed him into a gutless coward. And he fell asleep hating himself for all the reasons above and the newly found sense of weakness and fury.

* * *

"I have our next weekend activity," Mick said as they hurried their pace by the Alexandria harbor.

"Yeah? What would that be?" She asked as she pondered why she was always accepting to go to those places where there seemed no bar could ever exist.

"Sin to Win weekend in Atlantic City," Mick replied.

She stopped dead on her tracks, her mouth gaped and her eyes rounder than ever, "Wha… What the hell's a _Sin to Win_ weekend?" She asked as all kinds of images began to pile up in her mind.

Mick turned and she could tell he was measuring her reaction, trying to find the right thing to trigger the desired response.

He stepped closer, his by now familiar stroll leaving him right in front of her as his most wicked grin lit up his face, "Forget it. There are certain questions that, if you need to ask them," he said, tilting his head, a shameless provocation, "then you probably can't handle the answer."

She chuckled, he sure knew how to tantalize her wild side, "Oh, I can handle it. Whatever it is, I can handle it," she assured him blinking in that dry, awfully flirtatious manner of hers. She certainly loved how his brown eyes twinkled when she did that.

"Good," he nodded, "it's a date, then."

A flag went up. A weekend getaway? A date? A _Sin to Win_ date? Suddenly it had gone from meaningless banter to something else.

As he turned and began to walk again, she called him, "Hey, Mick?"

When he swung to face her, she relaxed. He didn't look different from the regular, just playing around Mick. But she still had to ask, and narrowing her eyes, she muttered, "You're not… trying to… you're not trying to woo me, are you?" She decided that the formal word would lighten the mood, make her question less serious, as if she was just joking.

He smiled but didn't reply.

"Come on, this weekend is not something you made up so we hook up, right?" She changed tactics, as she thought that, perhaps, this approach would obtain best results.

Mick looked at her in a dismissive manner, "No, I just think you need a weekend to blow some steam off, maybe get a rebound guy," he explained before something changed in his gaze, and a soft light shone there, "_after_ that I'll try to hook us up."

She broke into a low key, deep laughter. Moments like this made her want to kiss him. He could not be that tender. She was not going to kiss him, though. Of that she was fairly sure. He was good looking, fun, charming, sweet to the point of giving you cavities, and had that dangerous air floating around him that tempted her _oh, so much_. But she wasn't completely sure she was over that thing that had made her push him away and run out that night. She liked him to death, yes, she honestly did. God, she was evil, she thought as she blinked slowly, she was so evil if he still had some sort of hope.

But then, "Oh, please, just because your boss fell for you, it doesn't mean every single man in America wants you."

She shook her head and chuckled, Hotch related jokes, _so Mick_, she thought. One of those things that exasperated her and made her smile at the same time. She absolutely adored that he made it sound as if it wasn't serious.

"Some men are married," Mick added with a wink as she was catching up with him.

She tittered, "You're impossible, you know?" She asked before they picked up their pace. "And my boss didn't fall for me," she added more to herself than him.

He stared at her for a long moment and she saw that thing she had seen before, the thing that was behind his playful, lay back half lidded eyes, the same she had seen on the plane. But he directed his eyes straight ahead and pushed his hands deeper into his pockets, "So, Sin to Win weekend?"

What the hell, "Sin to Win weekend," she confirmed, in her raspy don't-mess-with-me voice, "and I'll kick your British butt."

If she had to be totally honest, she was scared to death by the mere idea of a Sin to Win weekend. Especially because her googling had delivered no information on the matter. Nothing at all. But she received the vouchers, so it _was_ a real thing. And she _had_ to go.

After deciding that her sinning would be limited to Gluttony, Sloth and Envy, she thought that Pride had to factor in. She couldn't show up to such an event wearing slacks and a t-shirt. Not if she didn't want to be teased by Mick from that moment to eternity.

That's when the dresses showed up, along with purses, high heels, skirts and even a few things that she would call throw-ons and that were slightly transparent. Slightly because she was still Prentiss. She thought she would feel like a grotesque impersonator of a woman wearing those clothes, but she didn't. She actually liked them. She hadn't expected that the things to which she had referred as _over-priced pieces of cloth_ helped her fulfill her desire to be noticeable and attractive. She still kicked ass, she was still though and rough around the edges, she continued to distill Prentiss attitude, she made sure of it, she didn't want to lose that, but she kind of liked the attention she got walking down the street or even at the Bureau. She was somewhat self-conscious, though, because when a few heads turned to follow her, she wandered if maybe it was the result of the odd combination between the feminine attire and the masculine woman that wore them.

Luckily, the team didn't comment on her new wardrobe. Had they said something, she would have been embarrassed out of her skin and would have gone back to boring slacks, perfectly dull shirts and graceless boots. But no one did. Not that she was expecting any of them to say anything or even notice, she reminded herself as a deep sense of stupidity and frailness washed over her.

"Gotta cancel, got a case", she texted him Friday night as soon as JJ came with the news. She didn't know if she was relieved or upset.

"You're gutless," she received as a response.

"Hey, I bought dresses, I am ready to sin all the way up to my victory, just got a case."

"You're lying, you didn't buy any dress."

"I'll send you a photo to prove it."

"Great! Free soft porn."

She snorted, "You're disgusting. Call you when I come back."

* * *

Oh, Hotch noticed. He noticed the texting. The first time he actually saw it and heard the snort that came after the last one. And the stupid smile that adorned her face when she walked into the conference room. She had obviously been absorbed by her dialogue; otherwise she would have realized he was staring at her and would have never texted, he thought. It was not a pleasant thought. But they had work to do, and he would not indulge himself, getting lost in anger, hatred, despair or numbness. He could do that on the flight back, after the case was finished.

However, when the stupid dresses kept on coming the week after, he he realized that it was getting harder to ignore the urge to grab her by the arm, take her to some private place and tell her that she shouldn't be doing that. That she shouldn't be dressing up, falling into the stereotype of a girlish woman. That if any man, and by that he would be meaning Mick, wanted her to look _pretty_ and dismissed her natural inner and outer gorgeousness, she should kick them on the shins and cut them lose. She had done with him, hadn't she? And he _truly_ appreciated her as she was.

Of course he didn't do that. He was above passion, wasn't he? Hadn't that been his trade mark for years? He was a professional, he was above those basic reactions. And, quite frankly, he feared that she might kick his shins and yell something back. Or that someone overheard them and they both ended up being kicked out of the Bureau.

So he kept his mouth shut and his nerves and urges under control all week. Until, of course, he heard them whispering.

* * *

I hope you liked it. I'm not quite sure I do. But, what the hell, that's what I came up with. Hotch ended up being a mushy. As I've said before, I have no knowledge of the male mind inner works.

Drop me a line, tell me what you think of this, it really helps. And I like getting those emails ;)

See you,

allthatisevil.


	10. Chapter 10

Hello. I'm back. I won't say much here, but, as usual, there will be some sort of explanation at the end.

Again, my English sucks, grammar, spelling, blah, blah, blah… you know the drill.

*Fist up in the air* Prentiss and JJ must stay! Girl Power, dude.

The Cure rocks. Random thought, yes, but pertinent if you live in my head.

Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds.

* * *

Why had it taken Mick so long after San Francisco to call her? Was it the first call? Had Emily been really surprised by the call? Or just embarrassed because JJ had seen the name on the screen? Had they already gone out and things had been… not so good? Was the chemistry that JJ had seen between them just the product of Emily feeling shook up by her close call? Had it all been a _knight in a shiny armor and damsel in distress _thing? Or was she seeing him and keeping it under wraps? The last one seemed possible. Prentiss hadn't been in a serious relationship since… well, never, had she? They knew she had had a long term relationship back in Chicago, but since her arrival at Quantico, at the BAU, there had only been a series of three to five dates per guy and some one night stands. And the last one they had known of had been… at least a year ago. Wow, JJ and Garcia thought. Anyway, if that was the case, Prentiss taking it slow, keeping it secret made sense.

Thought they were quiet, being in the same room made it pretty hard not to hear them, even when he was making a conscious effort. They whispered and theorized with the same interest they would have discussed a suspect's actions and he was, rightfully or not, drawn by the conversation. Experienced as they were, none of them was actually a profiler. They were close to her, true. They could have inside information. But, as he deducted from their theories, they didn't. In fact, he had more insight with much less concrete data.

They hadn't even thought about her humor or her new wardrobe, things that, he would have said, women were prone to notice. Nor had they realized her cell phone guarding. He was certain now that it was meant to avoid prying eyes and uncomfortable questions in case he called or texted, but not necessarily because she was waiting for a call; she just _knew _he would. And, having the team believing she and Rawson had slept together, a simple call could, as proven, start a snow-ball of rumors and/or conjectures. Anyway, they were, as he had already determined but the ladies just now began to consider, still in touch.

What he ignored, and apparently so did JJ and Garcia, was in what capacity Prentiss and Rawson were _still in touch_. Friendship? Relationship? In between? And then it hit him. Had he been replaced? Was she having _just for tonight_ nights with Mick now? Of all the possibilities that had occurred to him, from the entire spectrum that spread from innocent camaraderie to a lustful, love filled relationship, this new one really broke him. He could bare her love for another man. He could bare her interest in another man or her attraction towards another man. But being _replaced_…

In his mind, for a reason unknown to him, the twisted relationship they had maintained was theirs. They weren't normal, they weren't a regular couple. They weren't even a regular pair of lovers. But their complicated and yet very simple –while it lasted- relationship was unique. It was their creation. It had evolved naturally between them. It was private and _theirs_. Something like theirs, that kind of deep and casual, and yet constant relationship –which he no longer considered an affair- shouldn't be had with other people. A common relationship, he could handle. He wouldn't be pleased, true, but at least he would know he was still special to her.

He would have thought that the idea of not being special would bring a new flood of rage. That he would be so pissed he wouldn't be able to conceal it. No. This idea simply broke him.

He kept his cool, as Morgan would say. In fact, his grim facial rictus remained the same as she entered the room smiling, cell in hand, followed by Reid.

Another new dress, he thought. Shorter. He hadn't seen her thighs, even those three inches exposed now, for over a month. He felt the predictable need to pose his hand there, stroke her slightly, then move to the inside and end up on the back, barely caressing the soft skin on that spot that made her sigh. An intimate caress, innocent rather than passionate. But, mostly, he just wanted to pour her a freshly brewed cup coffee when she came down the stairs, sleepy but smiley faced, wearing a tank top and shorts.

But again, work. A case, a murderer, a frightened community. They could sleep on the plane, he said, as they wrapped the meeting up. He was, he had to admit, slightly glad this was the second weekend in a row that they were out on a case. While at work, she couldn't go out. Or stay home with Mick, if that was what was going on.

* * *

Almost caught. She had cursed herself for leaving her cell unattended for five seconds. JJ had seen the name and the questions had started immediately. Hadn't he been good in bed? He looked like he was _goooood _in bed, JJ had said. But she had done a good job deflecting the questions and dilating her answers.

A couple of things JJ said were true, though. For instance, Mick was a hot dude, with a sexy accent, a badge and a gun. He was just her type. Granted, it was also JJ's type, if one guided oneself by her choice of a husband. Maybe JJ's insistence was due to her own need to have a by proxy thrill. From that point, Prentiss went to her initial perception of JJ's relationship with Hotch. She had been almost sure there was something there. JJ was his type. Blond, pretty, petite, amiable. Yes, he was married and neither of them seemed to be the kind of people that did adultery, but there was something there, even if platonic. She had later realized that they were more like siblings, that the connection between Hotch and JJ was that of a profound care and understanding, of categorical, unbreakable trust. And she had to admit that, even when at the beginning of _them _that connection had made her somehow uncomfortable –why, damn? JJ was with Will and pregnant at the moment- now she was glad there was such a person for Hotch.

Anyway, that was sidetracking. The thing was that she had avoided giving any direct answer and she had even made a great job by saying she might call Mick. It opened the door to bring her friendship with him out in the open. Eventually she could say that they hadn't liked each other that way, but that they really hit it off as friends. He could then tag along when the team went out and, this would be very relieving, she wouldn't have to worry about calls or lie about what she had done during the weekend.

Yes, all in all, JJ knowing about the call was a good thing, she thought as she walked into the conference room.

* * *

Technically, the hours they spent sleeping during a flight weren't working hours, so he didn't feel terribly guilty for staring at her. God, this woman. Wouldn't she be more comfortable with her legs up on his lap? Wouldn't she be far more comfortable if they shared a seat and they both rested their legs on the one she was currently occupying? He would.

Of course he did nothing of that sort -he never would- and he even felt stupid having those thoughts more fitted of a teen boy, but they kick started his brain. Yes, it was impossible, they weren't possible and she might not be interested. She might think they had been nothing. Ok, those were the cons. He knew the cons. He had used them as reasons to pretend they didn't need to talk before that last night, and as motives not to go to her after it.

And yet… it had been a year and a half of their… thing, relationship, affair, fling, he no longer had a name for it. And she had been so… God damn perfect. He had said that already. But she had been _there_, _with_ him. She had come back for a year and a half. Damn.

She stirred in her sleep and he quickly closed his eyes, just in case she opened hers. He heard a sigh and was tempted to sit up straight and ask her if she was fine. Predictably, he did nothing.

As he fell asleep, his brain kept running the facts, the pros and the cons. And he came up with nothing. So he tapped on his unlimited fountain of anger once again and found some sort of comfort in the familiar feeling. Pathetic.

* * *

He took the beer, closed the fridge, tossed the cap and sipped his drink. He strolled to the couch, stretched his arms and legs and glanced around for the remote. He had become quite comfortable around her house, he realized, as he hit play and relaxed onto the couch. They spend most of their time together there. Granted, her place was bigger than his and it was fully furnished. Anyway, he was glad she was at ease with him at her place.

There was a knock on the door that startled him, he might have drifted off. He looked around, but she wasn't down yet. He stood up, searched his pockets for money and, before he opened the door, he scrubbed his face with an open hand.

Mick wasn't expecting it. He wasn't expecting him and it took him a second or two to understand what was happening. It wasn't the pizza boy delivering the food he had assumed Emily had ordered. It was a very serious Agent Hotchner. A, by now, quite angry Agent Hotchner.

Without moving, Mick lifted his chin a bit, blinked slowly, lazily, and couldn't repress the smile that tugged at his lips. This was going to be fun. Especially since laser beams flew out of Hotch's eyes right into his.

"Agent Hotchner," he said, strolling the words and thickening his accent, before finally leaving enough space for him to enter, "come on in."

Hotch's body had gone rigid and he needed an instant to order his legs to move while he tried to keep his fists from flying towards Rawson's face. But he eventually managed and walked in.

It had to be killing him, Mick thought, seeing him there, half drank bottle of beer on the coffee table, music playing softly in the background, lights dimmed, acting as if it was his place. It had to be killing him. Good. He deserved it.

Hotch stopped at a random point and peeked around. He took it all in. The beer, the lights, the music. Mick's demeanor, which was the worst of it all. But, damn it, he had to keep it under control.

Mick walk by him and grabbed his bottle. He turned and smiled at him, "Why don't you have a sit? May I offer you a drink?" He asked knowing that it was poking him with a heated iron spike.

Unclenching his jaw, Hotch hissed his reply, "I prefer to stand, thank you." His eyes were piercing Rawson's, trying to interpret his behavior, to read his thoughts. Because if the roles were flipped, he wouldn't have asked him in, and he certainly wouldn't be smiling nor drinking a beer. He would have asked the idiot that came knocking on her door to please step out of the building so they could settled thing like men. God, he _was_ a caveman when it came to Prentiss. Correction, he had caveman's impulses, but he could keep a hold on them.

God, this guy was ready to kick his butt. Good, he thought as his grin grew devilish. Emily was worth the fight, he knew it. It was good to see that Hotchner had realized it too, even when late.

"Emily is taking a shower," he said, "Do you want me to go get her?" Though it was true, he knew the visual he was providing was at the very least offending.

Hotch didn't answer, partially because he didn't know how. Mick seemed calmed, as if nothing was at stake. His complete opposite. But if nothing was at stake, if Mick was not afraid of losing anything, there were two options. There was nothing to lose or he knew he wasn't going to lose it. And regardless which option was real, he wanted to beat the crap out of him.

He was thoroughly enjoying it. Agent Aaron Hotchner, known by his professionalism, his stern behavior, his absolute control over every situation was completely burning inside. Good. He deserved that too. He deserved to squirm for being such a complete spineless idiot.

"Well, she should be down in a second anyway," Mick finally said.

He drank the remains of his beer, disposed of the bottle. It was time to let things happen. Before Hotch's flamed eyes, he strolled towards him. He stopped a few inches away from him, glanced up, to the top of the stairs and something twitched deep inside him. But things were as they were, and all he could do was to stare back at Hotch and match his madman's eyes.

He wanted to say _you hurt her and you'll be answering to me_, or _you won't know what hit you_, which was appropriate given he was a sniper, or even _I don't care if they toss me off the Bureau, I'll kick your ass_. But he was not that kind of a man. As much as he would like to, he did not interfered in his friends' lives. So he blinked, the natural affable light shone in his eyes again, though there was still something very dark behind it, and he simply muttered, "Don't be an idiot."

Before Hotch could even process his words, he sauntered away and was out the door. Hotch hated the man even more, for being altruistic and having the class he couldn't have mustered up.

Hotch was left standing still, the object of his anger gone, and he went back to the state of mind in which he was when he arrived at her door. He had nothing new to tell her. He knew that, no matter what he said or how, odds were against him and the leap he was about to take could very well end up with him crashing against the ground. But he couldn't leave now. He couldn't chicken out and go because Rawson had seen him.

He began to bash himself for everything. For the first night, the last and all the nights in between. For letting a month pass by. For assuming things in both directions. And finally for standing there, in the middle of her living room without knowing what the hell he was going to do.

* * *

Here comes my explanation. This _was_ going to be the last chapter, I thought I would be able to get it all written, but I wasn't. So… one more to go. Yes, you hate me and this is taking forever and it wasn't supposed to and what's the point of reading if it is stretching for, god, over a month and this motherfucker is even more descriptive than Garcia Marquez. Believe me, I'm sick of myself too. But the next one IS the end.

I won't threat you with the usual _if you don't review I won't post_ again because I want to finish this story regardless of how many reviews I get. However, I would be very happy if you do review.

See you.

allthatisevil.


	11. Chapter 11

Hello everyone.

It has taken a lot of time to update, I know. And I am a liar, this is not the end. I cannot believe it myself, but I'm not done yet. It would be hilarious if it wasn't so pathetic. One would think five weeks is enough time to wrap a story up, but no. I hope you're not sick of this. This is the story, the writer, the drama…

Romiross has been incredibly helpful, so GRACIAS! SOS LO MAS! (Thank you! You rock!) She does. She totally rocks :D

English isn't my mother tongue, you may know that by now, so grammar and spelling errors will be found and I am sorry for each of them. Don't hesitate to point them out.

The song to which I make a reference is _Pictures of you_, by The Cure (awesome song).

Disclaimer: No, Criminal Minds is not mine.

* * *

It wasn't really late, but she was beat. She hadn't been able to sleep during the flight back, having that not quite uncomfortable but slightly creepy sense of being watched.

It should be surprising, or disturbing. Worst case scenario, it should be comforting. As it should be that odd feeling of… real normalcy she had been sensing coming from him. Not that he hadn't been acting normally before, he had. But then again, she thought as she dressed, _normal _was a relative term. Normal as two years ago? A year ago? Four months ago? Two weeks ago? All the normalcies were relatively… normal. Well, that was it, right? Normal is normal. But she meant it as… Whatever, she was beat and she wasn't making any sense. And there was no reason to be thinking of him or his degrees of normalcy or if he had or had not been staring at her in her sleep. Which he surely hadn't and she was simply having a little mental relapse, tiny relapse, because of the woods or some other arbitrary trigger.

Shaking her head and, in doing so, the pointless rant out of it, she slipped into her shoes before taking a look at her reflection in the mirror. She smiled a little, she looked good. Not drop dead good, but good. The shirt had the smallest amount of sassiness, the pants fitted her and the shoes… well, the shoes were plain, but as a whole, it worked.

Why was she even thinking about this? She asked herself shaking her head again. It was just Mick, just dinner, probably takeout. Well, if she wanted to look good to eat pizza and drink beer straight from the bottle sitting on her couch, she had every right, she told herself raising her shoulder as she turned the lights off.

"Hey, Mick," she began as she walked out of her room, before even reaching the stairs, "what do you say if we go to that place around the corner? The burgers are good and I…" _could have a salad on the side_, she would have said, had she been able to finish the sentence. The shock of seeing Hotch in her apartment simply bolted her to the step.

She gapped her mouth a few times, her eyes wide open, her hand still on the rail, her body frozen in place, her brain racing at the speed of light in no direction. There he was, a few weeks too late for his presence to be soothing and not late enough for it to be insignificant. She didn't know what to say, what to do, how to react. She just stood.

Mentally slapping herself out of that _Gone with the wind_ reenactment, she blinked and tried to focus on just one thing. His eyes, she thought. She had to look into his eyes to know why he was there after all this time.

When she did, the shock fainted. There was something there. He had that expression, that sad, doleful expression that always made her want to hold him. She also slapped that thought out of her mind. But preoccupation tugged at her and she finally managed to come down the stairs and walked to him with relative normalcy.

"Are you OK?" She asked unnecessarily. Had he been OK, he wouldn't be there. _Damn_, she cursed as she realized that she felt vaguely proud of still being the person to whom he turned when feeling miserable.

He had kept his eyes on her from the moment her feet appeared at the top of the stairs. He had expected to feel trapped or exposed. Instead, he was somehow at ease, his misery instantly bearable in her presence. He could, then, analyze her. Passed the initial shock –could he had honestly expect anything different?- concern had taken over. She had walked to him without hurry, perhaps even apprehensively. Then she had asked. It was a simple question. He couldn't answer it, though.

For a second, she thought he wouldn't answer and simply pull her in, lean his head on her shoulder the way he had done in the past, and just rest pressed to her. The idea wasn't as alarming as she would have guessed.

He didn't. He eluded her gaze and, when he found his voice, replied, low and dry, "Everything's fine."

Everything was not fine. He knew it and so did she.

He had lost the courage that had hauled him there, he had lost the anger that Mick's presence had awaken or refueled -he wasn't sure- and he had lost the little confidence he had on his nonexistent plan and himself. And he had discovered that, even when he had had the time to prepare himself, seeing her outside the professional staging did still fluster him. And it soothed him terribly.

Crushed by that contradiction and his feeble determination, he dragged his feet to the couch and sat on its back, facing the kitchen. It wasn't as ostentatious as the view of the city that the window offered, but he liked it better. He had spent more time there than looking out the window.

Mouth agape, eyes slightly narrowed and stomach a little clenched, she studied him. He seemed serious, almost angry, as he always did. And he wasn't talking. OK, she thought, nodding. It was one of those occasions when she had to draw the words out of him.

She sat next to him, thigh and shoulder against his. None of them flinched or squirmed. It was still familiar. The physical contact was still comforting and warm. She wasn't as surprised as she would have been a week ago. It was a distracting thought; she had to go back to the point.

Consciously disregarding the warmth –it had a pull on her she preferred to ignore- but accepting the comfort -it had been too long to deny herself of that tiny, almost naïve pleasure- she tried, "Is it Garcia?"

Of course she would ask that, he thought as his teeth gritted involuntarily. She knew he hated towing Garcia into their world, into the un-buffered violence of the field work, where she could not hide in her aseptic, sterile bunker. Not that he liked any member of his team seeing someone die, but it was harder on everyone when it was Garcia. However, "No, it's not Garcia."

She nodded again, and his head lifted just enough for her to see pass the anger frosting, giving her a brief but unmistakable insight on his thoughts. Oh, this sucked. Oh, this really sucked, she told herself as a ton of sand fell on her and buried her. Truth can be oppressive.

She bowed her head slowly and stared at the floor, trying to think what to say, if anything at all. Was there anything she could say that would make things any better?

The music cut through and reached her brain. One of her favorite songs. Sadly, it fitted them. Horribly accurate. Almost a mock of the moment, as if the stereo's shuffle had a twisted sense of humor and had decided to display it. Mick had turned the thing on, obviously. Hotch would have never even considered to hit play. He wouldn't have thought of dimming the lights either, that was Mick too.

Other friends would have stayed to be supportive. Mick had left. Probably because he had seen in Hotch's eyes the same thing she was seeing now. Probably because he had their relationship nailed, he understood it better than either of them did. Probably because he knew she had to decide what to do about Hotch, and she didn't need an audience.

But there wasn't such decision to be made. Because Hotch, oh, this really sucked, wasn't there over some random reason. It was simple, her stomach knotted as she faced it, named it. He was there because he loved her. And he was glum because he knew there was nothing they could do. She felt the same, really. Disheartened. Her fucked up luck was such that when she finally fell so completely stupid in love and the man loved her back, they just couldn't be together.

She had accepted it. Before she even knew he loved her, she had accepted that she could not have a relationship with him. The newly acquired knowledge changed nothing.

OK, that wasn't entirely true. It changed everything, actually. Because while they hadn't known, since the beginning and all the way up until that night in San Francisco, not knowing had been their little haven. While they had that thing they had, that undefined nothing, they were possible –within the boundaries- . But having feelings, feelings that transcended those couple of hours and invaded their entire world… You can't decide how you feel. But when there are feelings you shouldn't be having, the right thing to do is not to act on them. So, if anything, knowing meant they really, really had to end it. Their work defined them, it constituted them.

So… that was pretty much it, she thought. They were sitting on the back of her couch, heads down, silently acknowledging the death of their non-relationship.

She glimpsed at him, a stupid attempt to share their defeat. Rationally, it made sense, but it was ridiculous. They had to be the only two people in the whole wide world whose relationship ended _because_ they loved one another.

But he didn't glimpsed back. He was staring down to his knees, very still. Rigid. So brave. God, he was… burning inside. So desolate… _God_, she almost said out loud as another realization pelted rocks on her.

It wasn't Garcia, he repeated to himself. It was coming to her place to see her, to _be_ with her. He had come to see where he stood, to confront things, her, himself, everything.

But, damn it, he was not a brave man. He wasn't dauntless. Mick Rawson had made his move the second he had had the chance. He, on the other hand, had blissfully ignored reality until it punched him on the face, and even then he had sat on the bench, he had taken himself off the game, leaving his place free for the taking. He was like a scared little deer. Well… put an criminal in front of him, he didn't even hesitate. But Prentiss… Put Prentiss in front of him, and he became a stupid, boneless twelve years old kid. Damn it! He gritted his teeth; he had thought about all these things before coming, and he had decided to come anyway. He needed to man up again. Recover that sense of self-assurance, that manly pride that had led him to believe she was never going to leave.

But his self-directed anger wasn't bracing him enough to regain his resolve. He was weak. He needed a sign. He needed a signal from her to regroup, reorganize his thoughts and decide again.

Oh, man… He didn't have a clue, she thought, her head hanging a little to the left. God, this man. He didn't know. There she was, her heart, her entire body being slashed inside out by the unbelievable force of her feelings, and he didn't know. And there he was, so in love with her –the idea made her shiver- that he had come, his ever-effective facades useless, just to sit next to her. Her heart sunk a bit. A lot.

She could have argued that perhaps it was best for him not to know. That there wasn't a good reason to tell him when they couldn't do anything about it. That the pain it would bring would be even worse because he would feel as impotent as she did. However, it would be wrong from a moral point of view, and her sense of honesty and fairness were too strong to be disregarded. And, even when there was nothing they could do, she was glad to know it hadn't just been her. She wasn't ashamed of what she felt, she had no reason to hide it. In fact, for her it was vital that he knew. She _had_ to tell him. The fight that hadn't even taken place in her mind was over, and she said it.

Her index finger tapped his thigh, a caress more than a call for his attention, and she sighed a muttered, "You."

Her _you_ told him nothing and the little tap told him even less. So he continued to sit there, motionless, wrenched inside but totally rigid.

There were a couple of words left out when she said _you_. And, seeing him, she knew that just that one hadn't been enough. However, she couldn't, physically couldn't string the three words together. Oh, damn, she would have to go further, be obvious.

It took just one finger. Her right index finger on his jaw. And it was the same as always. The slightest physical direction and the right answer from him. He turned his head as guided, and when her finger barely hooked the bump of his chin, his lips parted. And she closed her eyes. And she closed her lips on his.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five seconds passed before she released his lower lip, only to trap it again.

_Please, please, please get it_, she silently willed him, because kissing him again felt like a million tiny pricks to her heart.

Another five seconds, and her finger was still lax but keeping him in place, and her heart was pounding rapidly, and her eyelids crunched, and _please, please, please get it and stop me_.

And she pressed her lips the slightest bit harder against his as she kissed him yet once more, and she didn't wait this time and kissed him again and again and again while her brain yelled at her to get the hell out, and why were his lips malleable to hers but unresponsive, and why the hell couldn't he just get it into that stubborn head of his, and why the hell was she letting herself fall down again in front this impossible man, and why couldn't she just stop when her stomach felt as if claws were tearing it apart and he was doing nothing, God, she was stupid and pathetic, and _please, please, please, please, Hotch, just push me!_

But then the hand. Fingers on her nape, palm on the side of her neck, thumb caressing her throat, the softest touch, the stroke that was so unbearably Hotch. And lips, thin, thin lips catching hers, barely even sucking them.

Her kiss had paralyzed him. It shouldn't have, because the second her finger was on his jaw he knew what was going to happen. But he wasn't expecting to feel fear, actual fear at the contact. It should have clarified everything, it was the sign, it was his cue to speak.

And then his lip had been freed and an even worse terror ran through him, because it hadn't been the sign, it was just pity, but then she was kissing him again and his bones became foam and his brain checked out.

And again, and again, and again, and a sharp intake of air from her, and the finger, and, _yes, damn it, man up! Act! Do! Respond!_

Thus, the hand, her neck. He loved her slim neck and how he was almost able to circle it with one hand. And her throat, he loved the ridges of her throat. And her mouth, he just loved her wide lipped mouth. So he touched, he caressed, he kissed back.

Thanks God or Goddamn. She honestly didn't know. And she was beginning to not care.

And, again, a hand. The other hand on the small of her back, from one side to the other until he had her half surrounded. It still worked. His arm around her inundated her with bubbles, melted her body and blew her head.

Conscious thinking momentarily blocked, her fingers ran over his scalp, messing his hair a little, and she rolled somehow to end up sitting on his thigh, one leg between his. It wasn't exactly passion what guided her. It was the unavoidable, inexorable need to be closer, as close as she could so the hollow ache inside that she hadn't been feeling that often anymore but that had returned reloaded two seconds ago went away. And, God, damn it, this also worked.

Hotch held her in place, his fingers gliding up and down her back, her sides**, **her hips, making sure that she was real, that Prentiss was on his lap, that she was raining on him, exuding that thing that filled him with self-worth out of every single one of her pores, that one of her hands was indeed resting on the center of his chest. It was real. She was there. And his heart almost thumped out of him and onto her hand. _God, thank you_.

Mouths opened, tongues slipped out, touched, mouths opened wider, heads tilted, he slid her up his thigh a bit, felt the hand on his chest tense and the other cup his head, and the part of his brain that wasn't completely lost in the haze asked why the hell he had waited this long.

Immerse in a self-indulgent state, Prentiss deepened the kiss and began to purposely maneuver his head so her nose could visit certain uniquely Hotch's facial features. The pronounced nick on his left nostril, one of the moles on his right cheek, the chickenpox's mark by his lip. _Shit_.

It was the smallest of gestures, the kind that, in its lightness, mixed passion with adoration. He loved it. It burned him. It ignited him.

He slid her up his thigh, one strong arm around her waist, the other hand squeezing its way down her leg, hooking fingers on the back of her knee, and yanking it up until her inner thigh was pressed against his hip and her front was flat against his.

Undone, boneless and stupid, lost in the kiss and swapped by his body, she didn't even realize she was bucking her hips against his. She didn't even realize her fingers were clutching his back.

She didn't even realize his right hand was travelling down until the pads of his fingers brushed so impossibly delicately the strip of skin exposed on her back. Her brain froze. Time stopped. A punch on the nose, that simple touch knocked her out of the sensory jumble. Her eyes shot open, her spine lashed up braking the kiss, separating their upper bodies, her hands gripped his shoulders, keeping him at distance and she was present again, in the actual reality of the moment.

His eyes, God, his eyes, his face, his sudden astonishment, maybe even fear, his body, that thing that enveloped her, it was too much. Rational thinking had to kick in again. This was it. This was the moment to stop. To step out and away, to explain, to leave it at that.

And rational thinking won. Because she wasn't the type that said _I couldn't help it_. She wasn't the kind that, after the fact, blamed lack of character for her misery. She wasn't the kind that threw herself in now and called it misfortune in the morning. She knew consequences, she took responsibility for them and a certain amount of guilt often accompanied said action. But they were choices, things she could decide to either do or not, whatever the reasons.

And she chose. Her body lost tone, her head dropped and her hands went from his shoulders to his face. Limp thumbs forced his mouth open once more as she leaned in.

"You", she muttered again against his lips before truly and completely letting go of any possible conflict that could still be swimming inside.

God, he loved her hesitant and confident. He loved to witness the exact moment in which she made up her mind. Still, he kissed her as if to suck any remaining thread of doubt out of her and one arm went up, fingers to her armpit -he really loved that spot- the other arm down, across her lower back, the palm of his hand almost on her hipbone, encasing her, squeezing her hard without crashing her.

That manner of his, that particular hold that made her feel slender and graceful surrounded by a solid, utterly confident Hotch broke the little resistance her mind was offering. She was gone. And so completely present.

Impossible to say if he pushed her or she dragged him up the stairs and into the bedroom. Most likely, it was both.

* * *

I am not terribly pleased with this chapter, hopefully you didn't think it completely sucked. I kinda do. But if I didn't published another two months would have passed without any update. So, yes, this time I am unashamedly begging for reviews. Good or bad. I have low standards.

I would say "the next one is the last one" but we all know better than to believe me.

See you,

allthatisevil (AKA all-that-is-overdramatic-and-unconfident)


	12. Chapter 12

Hello, hello, dear people. Two month is a long time, but, hey, one does what one can when one can. Apparently, I can't write when I am extremely sad or extremely happy. Now I'm balanced.

Oh, this is unrevised so… grammar, spelling… are pretty bad.

That said, here it goes.

Disclaimer: Yeah, Criminal Minds isn't mine.

* * *

There wasn't any tantalizing in their undressing. It wasn't slow and careful, it lacked all delicacy. As the first strained, desperate sounds filled the dark room they yanked at each other clothes, they kicked shoes off, they undid buttons, unclasped holsters, unzipped zippers, amazingly well considering fingers were shaking, blood was rushing and all organized thought was gone, leaving them in the middle of a sensorial haze.

She couldn't tell if her back as against a wall or her bed. Hotch was glued to her front, heavy on her, shifting the pressure as he moved, and she moved to adjust, to keep the contact. It was a mess, his hands grabbing, pulling. And she knew exactly what they were doing to do, where they were headed. It was that, the anticipation, the tickles, the nerves sending alarm signals before he reached every single spot what made everything more intense, what made her explode, ripped the flesh off of her bones when he finally touched those spots, lashed her head backwards and made her bit her lip and plucked loud grunts out of her throat.

He had no idea of what elicited those responses, he had never known nor had he cared. All he knew was that what he liked doing she liked feeling. And she was squirming beneath him, her fingers digging in his back and raking painfully over his bare skin. And there were her legs, two boas constrictor, one tangling up with his, the other on his lower back pulling him closer. It drove him crazy. How they could hold back just to make it last, building it up, screwing each other senses, how the air that she puffed unintentionally on his face was energy when he inhaled it.

It was too much. Because she had the faint notion of her legs feeling something that she loved and her fingers running over ribs, twitching muscles, a hairless chest, a round butt that she grabbed and tried to pull towards her. And lips and a tongue inside her, the taste of coffee and scotch. And the silly song breaking through. She might have said it out loud or just thought of it, _bite my lip and close my eyes, take me away to paradise_.

Sweet, sweet pain then that opened her eyes and made her eyelids flutter. He loved her fluttering eyelids, the shine in her eyes as he pushed in. He loved how her entire body lost tone for just an instant.

She loved it too. The look in his eyes, the tension in his body that clasped her harder, crushed her to him, the impression in the back of her minds of things falling into place, of everything making sense. And Hotch inside her, making her expand as he moved. She was moving too, but she was not aware of it. All she knew, felt actually, because there was no space for reason, all she felt was him in, out, above and around. Something filling her, from her groin all the way up, passing by her stomach, breaking though her heart, pushing a whimper out of her throat and expanding from that axis, swimming away and twirling with her every fiber. She could feel it in her arms, her legs, her skull. Hotch's something swimming inside her, into every one of her cells. She could feel it inside her teeth, her fingers, her earlobes, her breasts, her hips and her stomach. All inside her, he was locked within. Every bit of hers was intertwined with Hotch. Filled with Hotch. All Hotch.

He felt the exact same thing. As if with each thrust he was making her exude her essence and he breathed it in, soaked himself in her, was invaded by Prentiss, and even when the feeling that his body wouldn't actually contain them both but not caring if his skin cracked and the room was flooded with them.

Of course it all precipitated into a frenzy, into a crazy race to get more, to get all, to steal each other, and locked the other inside themselves. He pushed harder to make her ooze herself and she clasped harder to draw every bit of him out until the world caved to the moans, the grunts, the cries, to the force of the clutched arms, legs, hands, lips and it crumbled on them, and they were empty of themselves and filled with the other.

They were dead. They were absolutely dead, not an ounce of energy left. Still, they danced a bit more, between hummed sounds she helped him to hover over her, he helped her to keep her legs around him.

She could see it in his eyes, could sense it in his breathing, could feel it in his weary moves. This was how a man felt. How a loving man felt. This was how loving felt. It was being you and someone else at the same time. It was the kiss she was now receiving, the ladder of wet lips that pulled just a little, the nose that glided against hers. It was not knowing that she was mimicking his ministrations.

Hotch knew all these things already. He knew what it was like to have a woman wasting herself to him. As he kissed her he realized that Prentiss wasn't wasting herself. She wasn't falling for a fake compromise, believing that if she endured it long enough she could turn him around and get him to be the man she wanted him to be. Because she didn't want him to be any different. The thought weakened him and his muscles trembled. So _this_ was being loved.

She felt the trembles and half smiled. Silly man, trying to remain strong. Didn't he know he couldn't because she had robbed him?

She brought him down, made him lay fully on her, slipped him out, pulled him up until his face was sideways on her pillow so she could touch his lips with hers as her hand landed somewhere on his back.

He allowed it. It wasn't the first time she took care of him and Hotch hadn't ever had any problem with it. In fact, it was one of the things he sought, knowing as he did that Prentiss did it out of genuine tenderness.

Hotch's hand went up and she felt rough fingertips gliding over her fingers, down her palm, drawing firulettes on the soft skin of her wrist, coming down again to caress the inner side of her elbow, down again to softly touch her armpit. She giggled a throaty giggle. He smiled on her lips.

How did he know those things? When had le learned them? They shared a fixation with armpits. Patrick had said it was disgusting, had made her feel disgusting. And there was Hotch, who sniffed them, buried his fingers in them.

And then the tip of his middle finger was tracing the straight line from the not quite obvious dint on her chin, up over her lips, to the well defined valley above them and up the depression between her nose's cartilages, falling down the straight bridge, shaping her eyebrow, brushing her lashes, touching her lachrymal –yes, they _had_ odd likings- and then his hand resting on her cheek while his thumb followed the curves of her lips.

Prentiss knew what he was doing, memorizing a combination of features that was no one else's. She had done the same.

Out of sheer caprice she ran her fingers up and down his spine, predictably making him shiver. They both shook with quiet laughter.

She closed her eyes and knew he was closing his too. They came to lay perfectly still after that, her arms wrapping him, one of his hands still on her face, the other idly cupping her shoulder, each lost in their own thoughts.

Hotch was remembering how she had slapped his hand when he reached for a condom. A huge relief had swamped him. Similar to the one he had experience when she did close to a year ago. In that occasion she had said _You don't need it, do I?_ They had locked gazes and everything had been understood. He had squeezed her, kissed her and entered her for an answer and she had clamped around him. He realized now that his usage of the future tense in San Francisco hadn't been the first thing that spoke about future and commitment. She had implied those things with her question. There wasn't anyone else. Because even with condoms she wouldn't have put him at risk. As she wasn't now. And he knew that her makeup hadn't been smudged over any face, her neatly styled hair hadn't been messed up by other hands, her dresses hadn't been peeled off of her body by any other man. He felt a strong warmth spread in his body. He would have kissed her, hadn't he been so exhausted.

And so he began to plan it. And he even cracked a joke.

"You'll tell me if I'm crashing you, right?" He asked.

"Of course," She answered.

It hit her then. The same phrase, the same place. The things that had started their game. What was he thinking saying that?

She opened her eyes and blinked at the ceiling.

It wasn't that she thought this night was a mistake. (He had used that word that first night, _mistake_). No, it wasn't a mistake. However, somewhere along the line, probably when they stood up from the back of the couch, she had abandoned herself to the moment and had fallen in a selfish state.

Because she hadn't done it to _steal_ him. Or it hadn't been her intention. But she had caved to his caresses, his kisses and had selfishly taken it all in. Probably because she wanted to feel it. To know what it was like to be kissed and caressed and… well, fucked knowing that it wasn't just her who felt it. She wanted to experience it. To get all that knowing he was guided by love too. To resignify the previous nights starting who knew when, but certainly San Francisco.

No. She had decided to do it so he knew. So he understood. So he could experience all that.

She had done it to get it into his stubborn and somehow insecure head that he did brought those feelings up in women. That she wouldn't be the only one that felt them. Her purpose had been to set him free, to tell him that it was time to move on, to find the next one, the right one. The one that was perfect for him. The one that could give him everything he needed every day, every night, that didn't required secrecy, that didn't jeopardize his career.

But, she excused herself, she was only human. She wanted to be chosen too.

And this situation, this obligation to cut the tethers loose and let him go was killing her a little. Maybe a lot.

But it was fine, she told herself, willing herself to believe it. Yes, she was going to be fine. It felt as if knives were slashing her from her guts, trying to escape her body. But that was _right now_. Right now, with that sea of feelings washing her over, damping her and leaking in until she was absolutely inundated of course it would seem like she wasn't going to bounce back.

But she was going to bounce. Tomorrow everything was going to be better. Ok, maybe not tomorrow. But it was going to begin tomorrow, she told herself even when her heart was shrinking and a deep, deep sadness overtook her. She was going to sleep well into the morning, then she was going to do something and at six o'clock she was going to call Mick. Please, don't be him away; please, God, stop serial killers if only for a few days. So Mick could stay close by and they could go out, to the movies, to some crappy club, plan a night in New York or maybe even a _Sin to Win_ weekend.

Tomorrow the stupid fantasy was going to die, she thought, a little pissed. The stupid fantasy was stupid and it deserved to die. So he could move on and she could set both feet on reality and move on too. Leave him behind, leave it all behind, push the memory out, and the feeling and the physical pain, expel them from her mind and her body.

It was so sad. So unfair. She felt the anger fading and the sense of Hotch inside her following it. The one time she fell crazy in love with a man that was also absolutely stupid in love with her, she had to end it. So unbelievable heartbreaking.

She bit her lip because she knew that those moments would still show up and she was going to have to remind herself that there wasn't going to be a _next time_. And she was going to feel void, she was going to feel naked for a second or two because during that time people would be able to see it all.

But, she reminded herself, she was tough. She was going to tough it out, until it all became a numbness she could bare, and then it was going to be gone. She wasn't feeling tough at the moment, and she was broken right now, but she could pull it off, fake it until it was real.

She indulged herself in one last pleasure. Like a sommelier of his scent she inhaled. She could distinguish all the traces. A strong, dominant scent of Hotch, the rancid smell of sex, her own aroma emanating from his skin and faint traces of shores and woods. Ah, it killed her.

She closed her eyes because spikes had pierced though her back and were now wiggling and waggling until every single organ was pulp. And for the first time since this crazy breakup had started she wanted to cry. She wanted Hotch to hold her and cry the pulp out.

But it was time. So she blinked the moist on the corner of her eye that wasn't a tear yet and tightened her embrace with arms and legs. She lifted her head and planted a soft kiss on his shoulder.

"We'll be fine," She muttered. "We… We'll be fine," She repeated because those were the only words that passed the lump in her throat.

Hotch had been focused on his plan. On the answer to them. And on her. On every square inch of her that was in contact with him. On her smell, on their drying sweat.

Until he heard her. The words were right, but the tone of her voice… the tone of her voice was off. His eyes snapped open as his brain raced trying to scan the tone. Because the words were right. What… And then the awful though. Had he been doing one thing and she the exact opposite?

He pushed himself up on his elbows to look at her. To read her. Her eyes were blank, staring at some random spot on her ceiling even when she was still holding him close. He was right. She was a shell of herself. She was just a shell locked around him because that's what she thought he needed.

He felt fire inside and he didn't know if it was anger or what. His jaw clenched, and he understood the feeling. Hatred. He hated her. He hated her more than ever before. He wanted to shout _What's wrong with you? What the hell is wrong with you?_ He wanted to shake her until she snapped out of that hollow state and gave him an answer. His teeth gritted, his hands fisted, his eyes narrowed and he slipped off of her with a brusque move.

She thought he was going to get dressed in a hurry and go. She would have liked that. Not really, a voice said. Yes, she replied. She would have liked it. It would have broken the pattern. They always spent the night. Leaving would be different. It would close the deal.

But he just sat on the edge of the bed motionless.

She didn't. She stared at him, her gaze roaming over him. She bit her lip, thinking about how beautiful he was. His torso wasn't triangular. His lips were thin, his hair was stiff, his skin wasn't smooth. His arms weren't perfectly toned. He had wrinkles and a little dewlap. His legs, arms and hands were hairy. It was so weird to find his middle age body so breathtaking. Because even now, looking at him, she found him mesmerizing. And he seemed so sad that she wanted to straddle him from behind, sneak her arms around him, massage his nape with her forehead like a little kitten, scrape him with her teeth, get him to turn his head and open his mouth so she sound pour herself into him, so even her heart and everything it contained fell in him.

Jesus Christ, get over yourself, the by now angry voice said. You're not the only one that can tough it out. For the past month he had done it too. And stop staring. This isn't a movie. This is life and life sucks.

She was angry too. At the voice, at her fucked up life, at herself. At Hotch for existing. But she lacked the energy to jump up. She actually lacked the energy to stay angry. She rolled to the other side of the bed, away from him, walked to the dresser, pulled a drawer open and took some underwear, panties and a top. She slipped in them and strolled to the bathroom, not looking at him as she passed by.

He did look at her. He watched her sway away, close the door. She seemed to be at peace with it. With her idea of what tonight had been.

He took a deep breath, and then another, and another until he had exhaled every bit of anger, every confusing thought.

Stretching his arm, he turned the bedside lamp on. A very soft, diffuse light casted more shadows than brightness over the room. He looked around, the scattered clothes, his guns on the floor, her overnight bag still packed. Suddenly he felt naked. As if his nudity didn't fit the moment, the scene.

Boxers on, he was himself again. The one that had dragged him to her house. He sat back, running facts and events in his mind, resolved. Though not quite as much as to not get anxious by the noises that came from the bathroom, telling him of her every move, anticipating the moment in which she would come out.

When she did, she came to a surprised –though not surprising- halt. Her brief shower had lasted enough. She had assumed he would have left by now. She was expecting him to be gone and she would then open the windows, change the sheets, spray some Glade and go to sleep. Hotch in his boxers altered her plans.

He stared at her. Her hair was no longer mussed, she had combed it and it was as straight, neat and shiny as when he arrived. Her eyes wore the same shocked expression they had sported then.

She wanted to ask why he was still there, half naked. Half naked Hotch was distracting and slightly infuriating.

He saw it, the tang of anger and bitterness that her eyes shot at him. Honestly, he couldn't care less what she thought or felt at the moment. Honestly, he considered that thinking had ruined them.

This was wrong. He was sitting there, serious, staring at her as if she had done something wrong. As if taking a shower to wash him off and brushing her teeth to get rid of the taste were wrong. As if he had the right to remain engraved in her. As if trying to get away from him was a crime.

To hell with it. "I want us back," He finally said, his voice sharp, dry.

_I want us back?_ Her features hardened, her body quaked, anger creeping in her from the sole of her feet and spreading like fire.

"Are you…" _out of your mind, stupid, or just being selfish?_

She held his gaze, pierced his eyes with her glare. It was insulting. Because good for him if he could go on pretending nothing was different, if he could still control himself and play the game, store the past month somewhere and pick things up at some point before San Francisco. She couldn't, nor did she want. She wanted to untangle herself. She wanted him to untangle and move on.

"I told you you couldn't fix this with sex," She replied, equally dry.

He blinked slowly, hoping he could find the right words. He couldn't. "I'm not."

Well, no, he certainly wasn't, she thought glancing around just to stop herself from slapping him.

* * *

Ok, now, explanations.

Told you not to trust this was the last chapter.

This chapter was written in one day after discarding all the previous versions, which may or may not be better than this one. However, they had me so tangled up that it was impossible for me to sort out what was good and what sucked. Yes, this final version is dry and pretty unemotional –unlike the others- but… what ya gonna do?

Review if you will :)

See you,

allthatisevil


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